Who was Charlie Waite? Well, to put it simply, he was a twelve-year-old boy. A little boy with a million and a half freckles, hair the colour of walnut wood and the deepest, bluest eyes you've ever seen. He wasn't the brightest boy, or the fastest boy, but he was a good boy. At least his mother said so.
Charlie loved his mother very much—he always told her so. And his mother loved him. His father?… his father had left a long time ago, before Charlie was born. And it wasn't Charlie's fault that his father had left. At least he hoped not. Charlie had never known his father—never met him, never saw him face to face… Oh, he'd heard about his father. He'd heard plenty. But he never met the man.
The problem is that sometimes, as they grow up, little boys have demons that haunt and chase them through their lives. Some of those demons are sort of good, in a way, but others are bad. Some come and go, and others hound their prey incessantly, exciting a rush of curiosity and adrenaline that isn't always best filled.
Charlie Waite's demon came from a trunk. It wasn't a rather large trunk, it was large enough for him to crawl into, but not enough to fit into easily, he supposed. It wasn't long enough. It was wooden, painted a drab gey with peeling black painted letters and slightly rusting hinges… serves it right for being in the musty old attic. But why was it here? Shouldn't a big box like this be kept downstairs, where it could hold important things? What was it holding?
He certainly didn't know.
But when he opened the trunk, a demon came out. The demon wasn't mean or hideous… it looked like a man. It was a ghostly man, of course—what other kinds of demons that looked like men were there?
And Charlie looked at the demon, and the demon seemed to look at him.
Charlie tried to put the demon back into the box, but suddenly, it couldn't fit anymore. And of course it couldn't—the demon was as big as a man, and the trunk was suddenly very small.
So Charlie closed the trunk, determined to simply not allow the demon to get at him. Why should he? He went down the stairs to the attic, and went about his day. He didn't think about the demon at all. Until that night.
That night, when he closed his eyes, all he could imagine was the ghostly man, trudging lonesome across a desert, lost and afraid. Then when he opened his eyes, the demon was there. It seemed to call him. So he followed it, back up to the attic. But when the demon pointed to the trunk, Charlie refused. What other horrors could be inside the trunk?
The two of them went at this, day after day, even after Charlie turned thirteen in June, and school started again in August. Charlie would come home from school, and the demon would be there, waiting at the steps, beckoning him to come, see the trunk again. Just one more time.
Most days he refused. Other days, he didn't.
He didn't, because other days, the demon seemed right. It was worth it to open the trunk and discover what was inside of it. Weeks passed. Every time Charlie opened the trunk, the demon only seemed to get stronger. Seemed to be more able to get Charlie to the attic.
Some days, Charlie was courageous and refused.
Some days, Charlie was strong.
But the demon made him weak. It made him cry. At least, he thought he was weak.
Charlie cried because he couldn't understand, why? Why was the demon here? Why now? He didn't understand it, but the school nurse told him that a lot of kids don't understand it, and it's OK to not understand it sometimes. It's all a part of growing up, and sometimes growing up hurts and makes us sad.
Maybe he was sad for the demon. Maybe he was mad at the demon. Maybe he was upset at his mother, for not warning him about the demon in the trunk in the attic. He wasn't sure. His body was changing suddenly. His feelings were all out of sync, and he didn't know what he wanted. Maybe he wanted his father. Maybe he didn't, because the demon was here.
And the demon became more powerful. It became a powerful desire, all he had to do was just open the trunk, and the demon would be happy. And Charlie would, too.
Slowly, day by day, the demon changed. It got taller, bigger, and more confident. And maybe sometimes, just sometimes, when Charlie looked inside the trunk, he felt like he knew the demon—really knew him. The demon was now clothed, not in normal t-shirts and shorts… but in a uniform. Boots. Helmet…. A gun. A stern face… and yet a strong face. Sometimes Charlie was scared of it. Other days he liked it.
A soldier.
Charlie couldn't reckon why the demon kept wanting him to open the trunk. It was full of papers and old clothes and metal… but maybe that was what made the trunk so special. It was from another time. Now, because of the demon, it was important to him, too.
Charlie could understand what was on the papers, sometimes. The metal pieces, and the fabric they hung from… they were important to him. And they weren't simply so because he looked on the Internet, and discovered what a Bronze Star was.
For years Charlie wished he could get the images out of his mind, a lonesome man, walking through the desert alone. Or maybe not alone? Maybe with his friends. They bear rifles and helmets. Wandering across a vast desert, where they go, they know not. Whether they will ever find home again, they know not.
For his part, the demon continued to grow stronger, clearer, more solid, until Charlie felt as if he could reach out and touch it… felt as though he could reach out and touch him. And one day he tried.
He had given in again, and looked at the contents of the trunk… and the demon stood across from him, almost solid now…. Almost as if there were a real person standing on the other side of the trunk. Charlie brushed his hand over a triangle of fabric as a tear slid down his cheek, and he reached out to touch the demon. The moment he did…. The demon vanished.
Charlie didn't understand it then. And when he turned fourteen, he understood it even less, although sometimes he missed the ghostly soldier man. The same went for every day after he turned fourteen.
And still, he probably doesn't understand it, entirely. He doesn't understand why the demon had to come…. But now that he's sixteen, he supposes that, while he never understood why…. The demon still had to come. It had to come, to give him meaning in the madness, a closure he'd never known.
You see, sometimes, little boys have demons that haunt and chase them through their lives. Some of those demons are sort of good, in a way, but others are bad. Some come and go, and others hound their prey incessantly, exciting a rush of curiosity and adrenaline that isn't always best filled.
Those demons, those naggings at the heart… they help to turn a boy into a man. They fill a boy with a sort of passion that carries him through the rough and tumble, the confusing days of life when you understand yourself less than the world around you—which was pretty ruddy confusing to begin with.
And that demon forced Charlie to see himself for who he was, for what he was. Forced him to come to terms with things—with the reality that it was OK for things to be not-OK. That some injustices and tragedies are just there, without any rhyme or reason….Because sometimes that's the way things are. Not OK.
So who is Charlie Waite? He still has a million and a half freckles. Still has hair the colour of walnut wood. Still looks at the world through the deepest, bluest eyes you've ever seen… but he's maybe a little closer to knowing who he is now:
Son of Lance Corporal Thomas Waite, USMC, KIA: June 17, 2002