January 31st, 1957
Eleanor called me at work earlier today – she read through my journal. She knows everything about the drugs, the other woman, and how I'm unhappy in our marriage. She threw everything outside in the bed of my truck, durin' the snow, so everything is probably ruined. I reckon I'll have to stay with James, the buddy I stayed with when the war ended. I guess I've lost everything now.
It's not all my fault. If James would've kept me away from drugs, I might not've started using them again. If Eleanor didn't constantly nag me about stayin' clean, maybe I wouldn't have relapsed. Eleanor shouldn't have started every argument. If she didn't, then I wouldn't have had to find someone to be an escape, and I wouldn't have been unhappy.
If my pa wasn't a godawful person, maybe I would've been decently sane. The more and more I think, it just seems like none of this is really my fault. Ya know, I needed a surgery a few months back – if someone would've just told me to not get the surgery, then I probably wouldn't be here right now. The doctors knew about my past with drugs, they shouldn't have prescribed me certain pain meds.
I just can't see how this is my fault.
As always,
– Edwin Myers
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The Soldier's Journal
General FictionA young boy, Edwin Myers, enlists in the US Army in 1941, during the second World War. He's badly injured in the battle of Crete, which lands him in the field hospital. His weakened eyes seem to jolt back to life once they landed on Eleanor Francis...
