The Greene Effect - REWRITE!!

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT - MEMORIES OR NIGHTMARES

Amelia Greene -

How can you tell the difference between memories or a nightmare?

Which exactly is the difference when, for you, they're both the same? When the horrible vision of death and bloodshed isn't a movie scene or a textbook excerpt, it's something you saw with your own eyes?

Every time I see those horrors again, I don't know whether to say it's a memory or a nightmare. Because it's both. And when your memories are nightmares, it makes everything after seem insufficient.

I often find myself at these crossroads. Wondering where the hell I go next. One trail tells me to put this all in my past, to push everyone who means something to me now away, because it's the only way I can move on with my life. The others say that holding these boys close is the only thing that'll keep me sane. The other will not work, because I know now that running is only possible in a full circle.

I don't know if I'm ever going to be fully okay. I don't think these nightmares that plague my sleep like locus to a crop field will ever completely detach from my mind. I'm not going to wake up one day and forget about the hundreds of scars on my body and the scars in my mind. That's not how it's going to happen, there's no way around it.

Hell, the only thing I know that it's going to be hard. And that I'm not ready.

Young women shouldn't be off fighting. They should be working or staying at home and waiting with the kids. What business did you have out there? Did you give yourself to every man who wanted a bite? You've ruined the reputation of our hometown girls, Ms. Greene, you should be ashamed.

Thank you for your service, Ma'am. We thank you. You're a hero. You deserve all the special treatment in the world. Are you okay? Is this too loud? How can we help you? Does it still hurt?

I didn't want business, I wanted to help. It's no problem. I only - no, I never gave myself to anyone. I'm okay. It's okay. I don't know. No, it hasn't for a while.

It burns.

I used to have perfectly smooth and soft skin. Now, there's dozens of scars littered across every limb imaginable. My face is aged a bit. My hair is no longer shiny and full of life, and desperately needs to be chopped. People will stare when I wear something short or with quarter sleeves, wondering what the hell I went through. If they draw the pieces together, they'll shrink in pity.

I don't want to be pitied.

Here, it's different. Everyone understands each other. Everyone has gone through the same thing. Everyone has trusted someone else with their life.

No one understands like your brothers.

Turner and I spoke back in Aachen, a topic similar to this. I told him I knew I was too close to these boys, and that it sets you up for detachment and pain. He told me that I had to be ready. My first thought was that I'd never be ready.

That hasn't changed.

You won't understand. You don't know. You've been home. You watched from the side. Whilst men died and civilians were slaughtered. Stop telling me that you know. Stop looking at me like I'm a limping dog.

That's what will happen if I go down that path of holding on tight. Imminent longing and discouragement when I don't find that comfort within someone else. Anger when an outsider tells me that they know.

So what if I push them all away?

It's easy to throw out a letter, or never open it. Its easier to never see them again, as were all thrown around the country, anyway. To an extent, I bet they'll understand; who wants to be tied to a life like this, anyway?