Memoirs

the-austerity-diaries

Hello everybody! Firstly, sorry for not getting this post out yesterday. I ran late with homework, and then was too tired to write, but I’m back today with yesterday’s post, and below I’ve transcribed something I wrote in English class yesterday. It was an in-class exercise where we were given several lines and just asked to write, and this is what I came up with. It’s made up off of some ideas I have running around in the back of my head, but that’s all I’m going to say for now. 

I couldn’t stay to take care of him. Duty called me forward. All our memories together, all the time we had spent side-by-side, training, I pushed it all away. I had to. Because I knew that if I didn’t, I would stay frozen, unable to move, caught in a decision I knew one day I would have to make.

For days I forced him to keep moving. We couldn’t stop. Death came from behind us, and nothing lay before us. He did not want to continue. He complained about his wound, but I knew. I knew he wanted me to carry on without him, that he was worried about slowing me down. I chose not to heed him.

They passed eyes at each other, knowing we were brothers. Our reputation preceded us. But oh how striking the difference now. Men who had seen death never were the same, but my brother’s eyes were not those of a man who had seen death. No. They were those of a man who had seen something so terrible that nothing else could exist. Nobody knew what had happened to him after I left him. Not even he.

He swore that he hated me, that he could never trust me again. I expected it. He couldn’t even recall our best times together, let alone our worst. I didn’t want him to recall. He had been through enough already. Why tell him of the tragic moment when he forced me to abandon him?

“I was at their mercy,” he said today. Before I could ask him what he meant, officers showed up and took him away. They claimed that because he remembered, they had to debrief him. They do not understand. My brother is a broken man.

That’s it. The first lines in each of those paragraphs were extracted from a poem we went over in class. It was a very interesting poem to say the least: 911, by Gil Cuadros. It contains some graphic language, which is just a forewarning in case you decide to go read it. Not exactly my style, but hey, it’s English class, what can you expect?

Tours yruly

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