A/N: Just a simple 'how-I-feel-at-the-moment-put-into-a-character's-perspective' one-shot. That's all.
Well, that and the thought that... is there anyone more bitter at heart than Hawkeye?
Also, happy birthday to Jamie Farr on 7/1/05.
Title Note: Dies Irae, Dies Illa means "Day of Wrath, Day of Lament" in Latin.
In all of Korea, in all of the world, there is only one thing that I want to do more than anything else... Breakdown. Just simply breakdown and cry, scream, curse, rage, hate, yell, damn, and lose it. No holding back or pretending to be okay; no alcohol to dull the pain; and no one there to stop me or try to comfort me. Because, in reality, how do you comfort someone when you yourself see the same horrors everday? There's no understanding in sympathy or empathy. Just a kinship forged through piecing people together so they can go out and maybe succeed in dying this time.
I want to breakdown, but I can't. There's always something or someone stopping me, restraining me and telling me to hold just a little longer. Just hold on... Hold on to what? It can't be sanity, because let's face it, I lost that a long time ago. It can't be hope, because how can I hope for anything when the world has gone to hell and there's no back window? And not only is it going to hell, but it's marked "express delivery," because why bother taking time to sit back and think? Ecclesiastes says that there's a time for everything, as Father Mulcahy told us once, but I don't think anyone has time for anything anymore... Except war. War is always the exception.
Breaking down would be so easy; effective, too. I know, I have seen it enough in post-op to be an expert on the matter. Another month or two and I will have earned my degree in less than half the time it took Sidney to get his.
I wonder what he would have to say about all this. He'd probably agree, then ask me how I feel about it. How do I feel? I don't know. I'm too numb to know. It sickens me that after a month I became so used to seeing torn-up boys-- not men, boys-- it didn't bother me as much. It still upsets me, but my stomach doesn't become squeamish, nor do I have nightmares about it. I still have nightmares, but even they are becoming more like reruns and less frightening.
I didn't realize how much I had become used to it until B.J. came. Heading back to camp along side some boys, when sniper fire came. I rushed around with Radar, making quick fixes and trying to help everyone I could. B.J. rushed over and fell in the mud. He checked a kid and told me to give him a chance. I didn't need to look to know he had rolled the kid over, since he threw up right afterwards. It was then I realized it. Once, I had been like that, but then I hadn't even given that kid a second glance.
I'm so numb now that even though it sickens me to think about it, it doesn't truly affect me. They say that, eventually, the horrors of war will get to everyone involved. Horrors of war? War is a horror; it's the horror, the one that has everyone who survives jumping at the slightest sound. I don't think I will ever be able to not immediately think gunfire when I hear a car backfire or shelling when something crashes.
I think I have truly lost my mind because now, at night, if I don't hear at least a little gunfire or shelling in the distance, I can't sleep. The sounds of war have become my lullaby. And, as disturbing as that is, what bothers me more is the fact that I'm not the only one. B.J. is the same; even Charles, who has never admitted to it, seems as restless as I am on quiet nights.
Oddly enough, I wonder if Frank ever felt like this. He was a Class A war-monger, so I have no doubt that the sounds of war were comforting to him.
I think I am going insane.
Maybe a breakdown is what I need. Too bad Sidney can't prescribe those; I could make full use of one at the moment. Small, large, physical, mental, short, long, erratic, comatose, I'll take whichever one is available. I'm not picky.
But, like I said, I can't. I can't breakdown. I'm needed in the OR, I'm needed for my humor, and I'm needed to keep everyone else sane. You'd think I'd like being needed, but I hate it. I want nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die, but I don't say that. I couldn't risk a general hearing me and shipping me out to the frontline. It's ironic, really; I want to crawl in a hole and die, but I'm away from the front, and the people at the front want nothing more than to live.
Another irony is that I'm forgetting what I want to remember and remembering what I want to forget. At least I'm not alone on that one-- I think that's the one commonality that we all have over here.
So, I can't breakdown because I'm needed. Not for me, but for what I can do. Ah, well, perhaps it's better that way, because then I can drown myself in alcohol and no one notices or cares. I know liquor isn't the answer, but neither is breaking down, so it's the only option I have left. I can live with reality, so I drink it away. Too bad I can't drink the war away, or else my humor would actually cheer me for once.
Humor. Something else I drown myself in, but not as effective as I wish. It works for others, but not for me. Maybe I'm immune, or maybe I have heard it all. Honestly, I'm too numb to know or care anymore.
I feel sorry for my father. I'm going to be hell to live with when I get back stateside, assuming I don't drink myself to death before then. I've already decided that I won't die from the enemy or from friendly fire, because that would be letting the war win. If I'm going to die, then by God it's going to be my own hands, intentional or not.
Who was it that said suicide was painless? Doesn't matter, it's a lie no matter who says it. If suicide was painless, then war would be painless, because in the end it's all a mass suicide on both sides. In fact, war is the only thing that, no matter the outcome or who "wins," everybody, somehow, loses. When war is considered, everyone loses.
Catchy. I might have to tell B.J. that one.
B.J... There's a case in study. He's always sane. I'm the loose, delirious one who somehow makes it through the day; he's the one that remains calm and sane in this godforsaken place. I'm not sure how he does it, and it's probably not healthy. Then again, neither is how I go about things, so I guess we're even.
Every man, woman, and child in Korea wonders how their life will be after the war. There's plenty of hopes and dreams and everyone has them. Everyone except me. I think I'm more terrified of what will happen after the war than what has and will happen during it. How can I go back to a normal life after spending years here? How can anyone? I miss life in Crabapple Cove, and I have a feeling I always will, since it will never be like it was before again. It can't. I'm different now. The world's different.
I can't be who I once was. I don't think I even know that person anymore. I'll get home and Dad will call me Ben, and I won't be able to answer. I'm not Ben Pierce; I'm Captain Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, 1-2-8-3-6-4-1-3, sir. I wonder if he'll understand that. I wonder if the rest of the Cove will be able to. I wonder if either of them will understand me and how I'm not who I once was.
I looked myself in the mirror the other day and I didn't see myself, I saw a man older than my father. I have aged so much these past few years, I think in another few I'll be ready for retirement.
I wonder if anyone will recognize me, inside or out.
I wonder a lot things these days, mostly how I'm going to survive the next. I want to breakdown, but I can't.
And I don't think I ever will.