A Collection of Short Stories

The Broken Man

A man sat in the corner of the pub, nursing a bottle in his hand. It was quiet in his corner and the shadows of the brightly lit room played over him. The rest of the area was alive with music and talking, bustling serving ladies moving among customers, men laughing raucously and banging their glasses on the polished tables as they cheered on their footy teams. It was a scene that invited merriment and entertainment, but it was all gloom and silence in the man's corner.

He was a scruffy looking fellow, signs of stubble upon his chin and unwashed hair hanging over his ears. His eyes were sunk in despair and his haggard face was the very image of misery. His clothes were crumpled and scuffed, covered in dirt and torn in many places. As he had entered the bar, it looked like he was a homeless man come to beg, but he was a regular and always paid, so he was left in peace in his corner.

The hand that gripped the cool bottle was crisscrossed with scars but up wrinkled. In fact the face, although despairing, was still young. A casual observer might have pinned him for late fifties, but he was in his mid thirties.

It was war that had made him appear so broken. War had shattered him so devastatingly that even charities despaired of how to help hi. Not that any were particularly willing to either.

His reputation was well known throughout the small town. What he had done in that war had made him infamous and hated. His own family had cast him aside in disgust. His fiancé had left him for another solider. All of his friends snubbed him. He was alone.

The man didn't blame them for hating him though. He hated himself. He wished he could reverse the clock, become the loved and admired man he once was and change his current desolate path.

As he brought the bottle to his dry lips for another sip, he dwelled on his past, cloudy eyes seeing beyond the shining table he sat at. He remembered being happy and proud, being able to stand tall in his pristine uniform as people clapped and cheered. He remembered behind admired and looked up to, feeling thankful for everything he had accomplished.

He had been a lieutenant in charge of hundreds of men. He remembered leading them into battle, the men willing to follow him in every glorious charge. He had been well liked, having many mates and knowing all of the men under his control.

He remembered imagining his triumphant return home once the war had been won. How he would sweep his fiancé into his arms when they were married. How he would have a family and play with his kids. How he would sit back and watch the grandkids while he remembered the days when he was young.

Now, instead he remembered the decision that had cost him all that. The call that had ruined his life forever.

Information had come in that the enemy was attempting a hit-and-run on their lines. The lieutenant decided that he would lead his men around to come at the enemy from behind and so trap them between his force and that of army's front line. It was a good plan, one that he had succeeded at before. But on this occasion, the information was incorrect.

The Lieutenant and his men moved before dawn to get into position early. His scouts reported that the enemy squad was ready to attack the front lines. They had no idea that the Lieutenant and his men had trapped them.

The Lieutenant was preparing to attack into to find himself ambushed. Yet it didn't come from the subway he was attacking. Rather, it came from behind.

The "hit-and-run" squad had been an advance force. The rest of the enemy army came up from behind and encircled the Lieutenant's men in the the same manner in which they had hoped to encircle the enemy.

They were slaughtered. The enemy was all around, lining them down. The Lieutenant radioed foe help, but by the time it arrived and drove the enemy off, it was already too late. The Lieutenant was one of a dozen survivors, hundreds of other lying unmoving on the ground.

From that day on, the Lieutenant's life changed for the worse. His reputation for being a great leader went up in smoke. He was disgraced. He kept his rank but the new squad of men he led no longer followed him willingly. They did not want to be slaughtered also.

News reached home of the disastrous call. Many of the men who died for him had relatives where he lived. His name was held on hatred.

When he returned home after the war, there were no cheering crowds and adoring faces. There was only sullen expressions and an ugly silence.

He learnt that his fiancé had left him for another solider, one who wasn't a murderer. His family disowned him and forbade him from seeing his beloved nieces and nephews. Even his friends snubbed him for killing so many of their mates.

With so many doors closed in his face, he turned to the only thing that was consistent in his life: booze. He lived off his army wage so he could afford to buy as much as he liked. He kept the house too, although it was an empty and dreary place with only him in it.

He raised the bottle to his lips for another sip to discover that it was empty. Disappointment flooded him and he considered going for another. But as he raised his head to search for the bar an of closest serving lady, he caught the gazed of a group of men. They were staring at him as they crowded a table, their faces ugly with hatred as they didn't bother conceal their glares.

The former Lieutenant realised that he had been there long enough. The people tolerated his presence for only so long before he was expected to move out of their sight. It was as if they were forbidding him from living a normal life.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he stumbled foe the door, ignoring the hostile glared aimed his way.

The outside air was cold as he stepped out the door, the wind tearing through his ragged clothing. He was about to start his lonely journey home when he heard a pitiful meowing.

Looking down, he spotted a tiny grey cat lying in the gutter, it's fluffy kitten fur no protection against the biting wind. It was mewling helplessly, it's eyes shut and pink tongue showing.

The Lieutenant looked around but could see no sign of a mother cat or an owner. Conscience egging him on, he hesitatingly reached down and picked up it, careful to be gentle.

It was so small that it could fit easily in the palm of his hand. As he cradled it to protect it from the wind, it opened its eyes and looked at him.

They were a clear blue, looking up at him with love and innocence. He saw none of the disgust and hatred that were so common in the eyes of the people who looked at him. This kitten knew nothing of what he had done, nor would it care as long as he loved it.

He slipped the kitten inside his jacket, tucking it in the pocket above his heart. He wrapped the coat tightly to preserve heat as he started walking home. A strange sensation rippled through him, a vibration that came from the kitten. He realised with shock that it was purring. It was happy to be with him.

For the first time in years, he smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~

This I wrote in an exam with the theme behind authority. My main idea was to have a soldier dwelling on his life and it progressed from there. I initially was going to have a sad ending, but then I realized I had a lot of time and I felt sorry for the soldier, so he got a happy one instead.