This is a different one, sorta out of my comfort zone. But it'll be fun, I hope! Thanks for reading!
LET THE SKY FALL
PART I
There are things he doesn't like talking about.
What happened to him is the biggest one. The bruises and cuts and scars tell the story, but he won't open his mouth to speak of any of it.
Where he was is the second biggest. All he mutters is that he was in a war, that he was in gunfire all day long.
How he's feeling is the worst one of all. That's the one that surpasses the stories, the purple marked flesh, the dark circles under his eyes. That's the one everyone tries to figure out and no one can find an answer to.
I think it's the one that's broken him. The matter of whether he's insane or not is a constant weight on his mind, and it'll only hurt him or save him when he finds an answer.
Like most people, I've never liked war. I've always thought it was a giant pit of restlessness––of soldiers killing just so they can get home.
I don't talk about it much. People don't like hearing what you do and you don't like; they only care about themselves, about their likes and dislikes. That's the thing about this world we live in: it's full of shitty people, shitty towns, and very shitty circumstances.
War is probably the shittiest circumstance of them all, constantly having a target on your back. Couldn't imagine the pain those people go through, but really, they did it to themselves. They signed up––or had to by the even shittier government––and are now cooped in their houses takin' pills just to feel okay.
Don't get me wrong; I get takin' pills. I get wanting to feel numb for a while. But this damn society has better things to do than to sit and watch people die, watch the death count rise and get anxious because they may or may not hear a family member's name come from a newscaster's mouth.
Soda asked me once if I believed in God. I told him straight up:
"There ain't no God to believe in."
He looked at me like I was nuts. They always look at you like that––eyes wide, mouth sorta hanging open, their hands wringing together like they ain't got anything better to do.
"Don't you think about that shit, Steve? That there's a higher power and all that?"
It was my turn to look at him like he was nuts. "Hell no. There ain't no shit to think about; ain't no higher power to wonder about. I have my own high power: it's called booze."
Soda smirked that damn smirk of his, but his eyes were sad. "I'm sorry you went to 'Nam over me, man."
"Ain't no shit to think about, Soda."
I shrugged and blew some smoke out into the night, watching it color the blackened sky with a streak of gray.