writer in the dark

battle scars

-

I feel the way a soldier does when they return from war, with trauma on their shoulders and a lifetime’s worth of pain in their hearts. their arms hanging from slings, hands gripping crutches, mouths smiling through the agony. everything hurts but the scars on their skin will heal, fading into nothing but a heroic story from their past to share over drinks, drinks that flush their cheeks and make them roar with laughter as celebration rings in their ears and hands land on their backs, gripping their shoulders, thanking them for their service. they are heroes, warriors, glasses raised to victory, songs of pride singing,

ghosts
whispering

in the silence that follows the party. in the mundane and the regular and the peace that surrounds them after. foreign. useless against the battle in their minds.

they will never quite forget the whistles of fired explosives, the hounding of bullets, the blood and sweat in their eyes. their fingers will always remember being poised around a trigger, clenched into bruised fists, holding the hands of their dying friends. they wake up gasping in the middle of the night, fumbling around their bed as if they expect to feel the dirt and soil of the trenches instead of stuffed pillows and cotton sheets. they flinch at every loud and sudden noise, tense as people fleetingly brush past them on a crowded street. they cannot, they dare not, believe the worst is over because the war is fresh in their heads. injuries heal, scars fade, but the horrors of what they fought remain imprinted behind their eyes.

I feel the way a soldier does when they see the world moving on without them. when they see people carrying on as if nothing happened, as if they hadn’t just almost died, as if the most terrifying moments of their lives had been forgotten. the nightmare has passed but they can’t shake that fear, fear as strong as the time they were crouching in mud, the cacophony of battle blurring into background as their heartbeats echo in their ears, knowing the next could be their last.

the fear lives, a creature of memory clinging on their ribcage, talons sinking into the soft flesh of their lungs. it does not hurt but it is there, heavy, synced with their increasingly laborious breathing.

I feel the way a soldier does the first time they talk about their experience. words that struggle and scrape against their throat, choked out like swallowed stones. it bleeds, but the pain is a stark flash of relief against the overcast of numbness. this time the creature shrieks, clawing inside their chests. sharp lacerations that rip them open inside, into nothing but skin and bones and vulnerability.

except that there is calm to be found and built from the ruins of their fabricated peace, as they clutch themselves and tell themselves they're okay, they're okay, just breathe.

there is no more need to watchfully tense in a crowd, to cower at every loud noise and slammed door. you are here. you are safe. you cannot stay in the past, because you live in a different world now. a world where people smile without malice behind their grins, a world where love and comfort surrounds you, waiting to envelope you so you may heal. it is not easy to accept the hurt as something that is past, but you can let your guard down now. you’re okay.

I feel the way a soldier does when the strength returns to their shoulders, the light to their eyes. when smiles and laughter come easier, without the whisper of a code red in their ears. when they finally soothe their wounds and accept them as part of skin. you can’t ignore the hurt and the scars — the best you can do is understand their mark and carry on.

there is no erasing the terrors of the battles you have fought before, but there is growth and happiness beyond. we can move towards it. we will be okay.