𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙸 𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 | 𝐃𝐔𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐊 [Collins]

Chapter 34 - I Don't Want To Let You Go

(revised)

They had sent a letter, two weeks after my return. The same letter they would send to every soldier who had been a prisoner of war. "Hey, we know you must be broken because we sent you into that mess, but it's not our fault. We can't really do much, but here, we made that program to help you get used to life after the war. It's called a Civil Resettlement Unit 'cause we don't want you to think you're crazy." I had immediately thrown that piece of bullshit into the trash before Freya could see I had received it. I did not need to adapt to civilian life, I needed to get my life back, the one without the nightmares, without the pain and the self-hatred. I wanted to be able to laugh at my sisters' jokes, listen to my mother's gossips and pretend to care, play football and drink beer with my friends, and spend the night with the girl of my dreams in my arms, all that unspoiled by the thought that I had killed and that I had almost been killed. If only life had stopped. If only it had waited for me, things would have been easier. I might have been able to forget the dreadful things I had witnessed. But things were completely different now, my life was not mine anymore, and the moments I had missed could only be added to the memories of the people I had lost. Yet, I had to move on, but one thing was for sure, doing workshops in the countryside would not help me find peace.

"You might want to consider the idea," James tried to convince me. I had instinctively come to him to unload all the things I couldn't tell Freya. He was the only one who understood that madness.

"I've considered it and came to the conclusion that it would be a waste of time," I gave him a gruff response.

"They made these programs to help guys like you," he insisted.

"Guys like me? You mean insane guys like me? Completely messed up? You can say it."

"I mean guys like us. Traumatized men. I'm no better than you."

"You didn't have to attend one of those, though."

"They weren't in place yet when I came back. Might have been useful," he observed.

"Shut your mouth," I threw my empty pack of cigarettes at him. "You escaped from Germany while I was waiting to be liberated. You're the brave one. I'm the pussy. You're fine."

"Well, you clearly aren't. No offense," he said as he threw the pack back, which I caught before it could hit me.

"None taken," I laughed. I had come to the point I could not even take my life seriously.

"I really think you should give it a chance," he insisted. "They'll know how to help you there... more than I can help you."

"How? You're the one who's been through that shit with me, while they stayed safe in their offices. They sent us to war, to death, for decisions they had made; they let us fight for them while they watched from afar, and now that they see they sacrificed us, they create some kind of program just to say they're doing something for us."

"I know it's fucked up," he sighed.

"Honestly, I don't see how talking about my experience can make me feel better. They can't fucking understand."

"If you don't do it for yourself, do it for her," he was not ready to give up.

"Please, don't bring her into this," I rolled my eyes.

"Alright," he conceded. "But think about it, talk about it with her. It's only four weeks."

I nodded, more to give him what he wanted than to say I would follow his advice. After years away, four weeks should have indeed appeared as nothing, but it seemed like the end of the world to me. I didn't want to leave again. I was scared to lose everything if I was away one more time. Just thinking about it made me sick.