"Confusion"

(based on a timed quick write during the summer course)

He struggled to open his eyes. How do you wake up tired he asked himself. But..tired he was. Exhausted. Drained. He thought back to when it had happened. He wiped the sleep crust out of the corner of his eyes. Come on, he urged himself, remember. It was like a plea. He didn't recognise the weakness in his whisper. And yet, the memories kept slipping through his mind, he was like a child unable to hold on to a ball. Each time he grasped at a memory it slipped out of his reach.

They'd been together, of that he was sure. Definitely. They must have been together. They were always together, yet, why was he alone now? He looked down at where his strong muscular arms should be.

Confusion.

Papery, spindly, skinny arms with thin, long tapered fingers. And the blotches and the veins. He couldn't take it in and yet it was familiar. He'd get to the bottom of this. He looked around the room, everything in a soft, blurred focus. His uniform. OH!! There'd be hell to pay. Where was it? One of his bunkmates must've hidden it. Where was it? He was always fastidious, his uniform as clean as a new penny. He needed the security of his uniform. Once he put it on, all would be ok.

He rubbed his hands slowly over his face.

Stubble.

He'd be in trouble if he was seen with stubble. He'd be given the what fro. He'd shaved that morning, using the small broken mirror and resting it on his canteen. In fact, he'd managed to nick his chin in the process. Funny how he couldn't find the scab of it now.

He sat back down on the bed, tired, frightened, a nervousness creeping over him. He knew there was a horrible truth, a reason, a finality just dancing at the edge of his mind...just out of his reach.

He needed to sleep. He'd be late for line out and there'd be hell to pay, but he needed to close his eyes. He lay back and closed his eyes. His eyes dancing under his eyelids as if still searching for his uniform.

She quietly tiptoed towards the bed. He was asleep. His mouth was ajar, snoring softly, his thin chest rising and falling slowly. She pulled the blanket up to his shoulders. 

Poor Eddie she thought... an old man of 90 in his body, a young man in his prime in his mind. She shook her head in pity and disgust. Times had changed, but still, young men women went off to fight the wars and some continued fighting them even as they neared the end of their lives, their minds forever trapped in no mans land. 

As she closed the door to Eddie's room, she thought of a poem she had learnt in school "Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori"- it's a sweet and good thing to die for your country. She wondered if Eddie would agree with it if he could.