S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Slightly longer chapter ahead. One more chapter after this one!
He's Him
Chapter 4
He's Angry
He's angry.
He fires his rifle. It hits his target. He feels no remorse. Not now.
Bullets zip pass him, all in different directions. He doesn't even try to dodge them, but they all miss. Of course they all miss.
He fires again, and again, and again, and again. He hits his target. Every time. He feels nothing.
Before, he would shut himself down. Guilt would tear through his insides, fear would wreck his mind - he'd be a mess. The first shot, the first bullet, the first kill, he was. He was a mess. The attack had ended, they had won. But he felt nothing of the sort. He slept in the trenches, nightmares taunted him. He smoked every cigarette he had. He could barely keep it together. He had killed a man.
Sure, back home he beat up people. Socs. He's a good fighter. Tough and strong and cocky. He'd feel accomplished and powerful whenever he'd won a fight. Whenever he beat up a soc so bad they couldn't even walk. He had a rep to maintain, and he maintained it well. But the war, the war's horrifying. It's not some juvenile street fight, not some heated argument between social groups, it's war. It's battle. It's killing. And it isn't easy.
But now, he doesn't care. He reloads his rifle, fires more bullets, watches the bodies go down.
He's angry.
The commander shouts. His voice is deep and rough and loud. Tells his soldiers to retreat. To move back.
He doesn't. He fires his rifle again and again. Over and over.
They're losing. More and more bodies in the same uniform as him drop to the ground lifeless. More gooks appear in front of him, their own guns firing rapidly.
But he doesn't retreat.
The commander shouts his name. His voice serious.
He doesn't listen. Only fires his gun. Hits his target. Watches the body drop.
More bullets fly around him. They miss.
The commander's angry. He doesn't care. He fires.
His own heartbeat sounds in his ears. His breath is ragged, harsh. He doesn't blink his eyes. Sweat runs down his dirt-covered face. His fingers shake as they wrap around the trigger of his rifle. He doesn't twitch as the blast of the bullet rings through his ears. Adrenaline runs through his veins, but all he focuses on is the gooks. The soldiers on the other side. The ones firing at him. The ones who fired at him. He's so angry.
He doesn't even feel it when a bullet pierces his right soldier. Doesn't even fret.
He wonders if this is what he had felt. When the gooks bullets shot into him, when the rifles fired off directly at him, when they didn't miss. Did he feel it? Did he feel the blood pouring from his body? Or did he stand there, unnoticed, unafraid?
An arm grabs him. It's strong, pulling him backwards, away from the firing soldiers. He twists in the stranger's grasp, fighting to break free, but he's slow. Everything's fuzzy, his limbs grow weak. He's frustrated.
"Hey! Give it up, Private! Stop it!"
He recognizes the voice. It's deep, urgent. It's Francis. Ross Francis.
His eyelids are heavy, his squirming arms hang by his sides. He's frustrated - his damn eyelids won't stop falling.
"Medic! We need a medic!"
The voice is traveling, far, far away. The deep voice is distorted, slow, distant. He's not even sure what else the voice is saying.
His eyelids fight with him, the battle of dominance a tricky one no doubt. He fights back, angry that the stupid things had the mind to challenge him in the first place. God, he's so angry. Those fucking lids on his eyes just won't stay open.
He shuts them. Out of spite.
"No! No, no, no, don't close your eyes! You hear me, Private! Keep your eyes open!"
Too late, bozo. He wants to say to the voice, but it seems his mouth has a fight to pick with him as well.
The voice continues, muffled and deep. It sounds like the speaker has his head shoved into a cushion. He can't understand him, but it's not like he wants to. The guys yelling in his face, his saliva flying from his mouth onto him, and it's annoying. Aggravating. So he doesn't listen to the voice, he shouldn't have to. Why should he listen to the ignorant bastard? He shouldn't.
So he keeps his eyes close, lets the heavy lids win the fight, but he assures them it won't be the last of him. There'll be another battle, and he'll win that one. He'll fucking win.
He's so angry.
The incessant sound of a heart monitor is what opens up his eyes once again.
Take that, you bastards. He whispers to the eyelids.
He didn't mean to whisper. Didn't try to. Even his damn voice is fighting with him now.
He tries to sit up. Puts his weight down upon his right arm, but it doesn't obey. Pain courses through his shoulder like magma, burning the tissue and bone. He groans, falls back down.
He swears. It comes out as another whisper, scratching his throat.
It makes him angry.
The beeping speeds up, and so does his breathing.
"Woah, easy there."
His eyes follow the voice. He recognizes it. It's rough.
Sure enough, there he is, the commander, standing by the foot of his bed. The man doesn't look happy, but he doesn't care. He couldn't care less.
"Good to see your up and well."
He stares, interested in the light beard on his commander's jawline.
"You care to tell me what that was back there?"
He rolls his eyes. Doesn't reply. He's too angry.
"You ignored a direct order from your commander. You realize that, don't you?"
He doesn't reply. Doesn't trust what might come out.
The man continues on. Rants, serious and stern. He's angry, but he wonders if he's as angry as himself. He doubts it.
The commander's voice sounds in the small infirmary, the volume high. But he doesn't listen. Drowns it out. He doesn't care.
The guy could throw him in jail. Give him to the gooks. Shoot him in the head.
He doesn't care. Not now.
"This is about that other soldier, isn't it?"
He looks up.
"The one you requested to be in the same detachment with, am I right?"
He glares daggers.
"Well listen up, Private. Deal with it. Nothing could be done. The gooks had him. Nothing could be done to help him."
"Shut up." It comes out as a whisper. The beeping speeds up.
"One life compared to a-hundred. There were too many gooks, kid. Not enough of us. We had to leave. Had to."
He's angry. He's so angry, because goddammit, he'll be damned if he lets him talk like that. Not that. Not about him. Commander or not, he won't have him talk about his friend like that. Never.
He pushes himself up, puts weight on his left arm. Not his right. His breathing comes out in pants, sweat moves past his brow, his fists clench harshly.
His eyes glare, hard at the man.
The commander eyes him. Sees the emotion. Sees the anger. Watches him fight to sit up. Knows how intent he is on hurting him for saying such things. So the man sighs. Lets his stern look fade away. Gives him empathy.
"Look, I'm sorry about your friend. I am, but you got to move on. Your a soldier. In the army. In Vietnam. Ain't no one going to give you mercy here."
And just like that, he's gone. Walks out the curtain room. Slides the fabric shut behind him.
He yells. Throws his pillow on the floor, tears up his blankets. Slides everything off the table beside him. He screams. It's hoarse, and it hurts like hell, but he doesn't care. Can't hardly feel it. God, he's so angry. So, so angry.
The curtain slides across again. The metal rings scrape across the horizontal pole around the room.
"I heard."
Francis. Ross Francis.
He stares. Tears of frustration hanging off his eyes. Tears of anger.
Francis picks up the pillow. Picks up the items from the table. Fixes his blanket.
Francis sighs.
"The army sucks, man. Bunch of bastards."
He continues to stare. His throat hurts too much to speak.
"They shouldn't have left him - your friend. Shouldn't have."
He wants to tell him to shut up. He wants to tell everybody to shut up. To stop talking. Stop talking about him.
"Maybe if someone was there...maybe if another solider was left on the ground with him...maybe it wouldn't have happened."
And he's had it. God, he's had it. Tears flow from his eyes like river, a fast one, unable to be stopped. Francis leaves the room. Shuts the curtain. Lets him cry. Lets him wail.
Because there could've been someone who was there. There could've been another soldier left on the ground. There could have been someone to help him - stop it from happening.
And goddammit, it could've been him.
If only the army had listened. His one request. Just one.
He could've helped him. He would've. God, he would've. If only the army had listened.
He throws the pillow back on the floor.
He tears up the blankets.
Tips over the table.
He cries. Lets the tears run. Lets the heart monitor speed.
He's Steve.
And he's so angry.
So fucking angry.