Title: Flashes
Author: sss979
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Face recalls fragmented memories of early childhood.
Warnings: Angsty. Child abuse. None of it graphic.
Author's Note: I've had a really SHITTY couple of days dealing with the effects of abuse on children that I love. This is my attempt to exorcise my own demons so that I can move on to help them with theirs.
It's funny the things that you think about when you're dying. Funny the things you remember. It's been twelve hours since we escaped from the prison at Fort Bragg – over the wall with not even the clothes on our backs. (We had to use those to get past the barbed wire.) It's January. This is North Carolina. There's four inches of snow on the ground and I've been in tropical Vietnam for two years. Let me tell you, if it's your time to die… hypothermia is not the way to go
I know it's happening – I'm warm all over and yet I can't stop shaking. My whole body is convulsing as I continue to put one foot in front of the other. If we stop, we'll surely die. Or else, Lynch will catch up with us. At the moment, that seems worse than death. Don't ask me why; it doesn't really make any sense. I must be delirious. Just follow Hannibal's footsteps. Try to concentrate on the words to "Old Blue". Don't ask me why we're singing. But all three of us are. Six more names until the end of the song – the last six men we know of who were killed in SOG. Three. One. Sing the last chorus and start over again. By the time we're done with another round, we'll be another hundred yards through the snow.
At least there's no wind…
They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes. I don't know if I believe that. If you go too fast, there's no time. I've seen men die like that. One second they're talking to you and the next, their entire face is blown off with an AK slug. They never knew what hit them. For me, death is too slow and "flashing" is not the word. It's playing in slow motion, and over the most random things. I'm catching glimpses of memories I didn't even know I had.
I'm thinking about orange juice.
"Templeton, what's the matter? Don't you like it?"
A young boy crinkles his nose in disgust. "It tastes funny."
"Have you ever had orange juice before?"
He nods. "Sure I have. I drink it every night before bed. And when –"
Maybe "flashing" is the right word. The memories cut in and out in the strangest places – black on either side. I remember the orange juice, though. And the Sister who was trying to convince me to drink it. I also remember being thirteen, when Tim Peatrie heard somewhere that vodka tasted good in orange juice. After that, I knew why the orange juice tasted funny. It needed vodka.
I still can't stand orange juice.
I'm thinking about cracks in the pavement.
"Hurry up! You need to walk a little faster!"
The boy's feet are barely touching the ground. "Where we going?"
"To meet Momma's friend Skip. You remember Skip, don't you?"
Head down, watch the cracks. If your foot catches, you'll fall, and Momma will be pissed if you make her late.
I'm thinking about social taboos.
"Templeton, Ron tells me you came into the bathroom this morning while he was in there – is that true?"
The boy's head is down. "Uh huh."
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I told him…" Dig your toe into the ground, twist your ankle, shrug your shoulders like it's no big deal. But it is a big deal. The tears come in a flood. "He called me stupid, Father. I told him I wanted to drink his pee. I was just trying to be nice!" Shudder, sob, shoulders shake. "Momma always used to do that for –"
Another blank frame in the screenplay of my childhood. I don't remember the man's response. I don't even remember which man it was. These memories have been buried so deep for so long, I'm not even sure how I remember any of them. I'd like to move on – skip forward a few years. Remember what it felt like to be socially adjusted, to have friends, to understand the world around me. But I'm stuck in those earliest memories – the ones I've never spoken to anyone about.
I'm thinking about boundaries.
"Templeton, we don't kiss girls that way."
The boy was confused. "But I really like her. You said people do that when they really like each other."
"I said it was what grown ups do when they really like each other, Templeton. You're six."
"But Father, I really like her."
I'm thinking about therapists.
"Can you tell me what happened, Templeton?"
The boy's eyes were closed. Head down, don't speak. Don't open your eyes. Maybe this will all go away.
"Templeton, did somebody hurt you? Was it here?"
Eyes open on their own. Grab the doll from the stranger's hands and throw it as hard as you can. It bounces off the wall. "Fuck you! Fuck you and your dolls! I don't play with dolls! Go away!"
"Hannibal, stop…" I'm not sure my voice is even working. but I've lost my footing, and I'm falling forward. "Stop…" Dizzy, frozen. I hurt everywhere. "I can't do this. I can't walk anymore."
On my knees, in the snow. Eyes closed and head down. Shaking violently. I'm thinking about… cold.
"I want you to go up those steps and knock on that door right there."
The shivering boy points to the huge, looming church, and looks back at his mother through the falling snow. "What one right there?"
She nods and he turns away, but only takes two steps before she calls him back. Kneeling on the sidewalk, she puts her arms around him and holds him tight. "I'm so sorry, baby." She's crying, shaking. He's shaking too, from the cold. "I'm so sorry."
"For what, Momma?"
"Get up, Lieutenant." Patient, but urgent. I open my eyes. He's standing over me.
I shake my head. "I can't." It hurts just to breathe. "I can't do this."
My will is broken. I'm dying. Two years of Vietnam, lost in jungles and evading Charlie… and I'm going to die right here, face down in the snow in North Carolina. I'm fine with that. I've never been ready to die before this moment. But right now, it would feel so good to not have to take another breath.
"Hannibal!" I hear BA's voice just as I fall forward, into Hannibal's arms. "There's a cabin up ahead! Looks like it's empty!"
"Good! Get over here and help me carry him!"
The steps up to the church are steep. Knocking on the door hurts his hand. He uses the side of his fist, then waits.
"Hello..." The man, dressed in black, kneels down. "Who are you?"
"My momma told me to knock on the door."
"Where's your mother now?"
The boy looks back, over his shoulder. But the street is empty. Looking back up at the man, he gives a half-hearted shrug. "I don't know. Maybe she went to buy orange juice."
Blackness.