Dogtags
Blood trickles down my face, running over my lips and leaving a salty, metallic taste in my mouth. I stumble along, vision blurred. I hit a tree, bruising my shoulder, but I keep moving. I have to keep moving. I have to find my son.
The air is filled with smoke and dust, and as I gasp for a breath, I can feel bile rising. I throw up on a tree, leaving a lumpy khaki-colored substance splattered across the bark. My throat is dry and hoarse, now coated in a thin layer of slime, but I push forwards. The trees are sparser here, and the ground is more even. I press on, blinking the smog out of my eyes, desperately searching. Finally, there is no green left. The trees have all run away, replaced with burning red and filthy black. The air is thick, and I can smell the smoke, the fire, and something else. I smell the stench of fear, acrid in my nostrils. It hangs hot and heavy in the air, engulfing everyone still alive. I smell the blood, the gunpowder, the death. My body aches all over, covered in cuts and bruises. I frantically call out his name. I can’t fail. I have to find him. All around me, bombs go off. Screams, pleas, shouts and cries surround me. I wander forward cautiously, stepping over bodies, ally and enemy alike. I struggle, limping along, clutching my side, trying to staunch the blood coming from the gashes that ran up and down my body. I am lightheaded, dizzy from blood loss.
“Over here,” I hear a growl from behind me. I feel meaty hands clutch my frail arms and pull them aggressively behind my back, throwing me to my knees. My stomach drops and tears stream down my face. My hand wraps tightly around the necklace I have fastened around my wrist and grasp the dogtags. Richardson, David J. Richardson, Troy M. I trace over the words as the man’s foot hits my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. Silent tears fall down my face, obscuring my vision. The man kicks me, over and over again, beating me within an inch of my life. Every hit sends a wave of agony coursing through me. My body screams out in pain.
His face lit up with a big, toothy grin. He picked up the toy plane.
“VROOOOMMMMMMMMMM!”
He raced around our backyard, laughing, feet barely touching the ground. He ran through my flower beds of violet and fuchsia, but I just laughed and smiled at him, delighting in his joy. Suddenly, the back door slammed.
“Davey boy! Come here!” A voice boomed, and David quickly ran over to his father and leapt into his outstretched arms.
“Daddy! Mommy got me a airplane! Now I can be a fighter pilot! Just like you,” He squeezed his father’s neck.
“That’s so exciting! Bring it me, kiddo,” David ran over to where the plane was, grabbed it, and went back to playing with it, forgetting about his father and re immersing himself in his imaginary world. I turned to the man, grinning from ear to ear.
“Troy, I missed you. You came back for his birthday, though,” I kissed him, welcoming home my lost husband.
I gasp, coming back as I feel a stomp on my nose. Blood gushes down my face, soaking my already grimy hair.
“Please. Please, stop. I need to find my son. Please. I’ll do anything,” My voice is hoarse and cracked. I plead with the unknown man, praying that he will listen, but he doesn’t. He just chuckles, and evil, malicious cackle. He leans down, and I feel his hot breath tickle my ear, running through my hair.
“No.”
He laughs, and I feel my heart breaking into fragments, any hope of finding my son slipping through my bloody fingers.
The fire crackled merrily and large snowflakes drifted lazily past the frosty window. I was content and full, and David had come and collapsed into my arms. His eyes were shut, and his breathing was rhythmic. I laid there, cradling my son, filled with love and joy. That’s how we fell asleep; me, staring at him lovingly, and him stretched out there, laying on my lap, wrapped in my arms, forever my child.
I wake. I had passed out from the pain. My clothes are torn, and I am covered in blood and dirt. The man has gone, though not without leaving me more injuries. I lay there, exhausted, in agony. I just want to go to sleep, to never wake up. Maybe I will finally get to see my husband, I think, ready to accept my fate. It has been seven years.
“You’re not allowed! I can’t let you! You’ll die!” I screamed, fighting against his decision with every breath I had. I clung to his well-muscled arm, refusing to let him leave.
“Let go of me! I want to do this! I’ve wanted to do this my whole life!”
“I don’t want you to end up like you father.” The air was sucked out of the room, and the silence pressed down on us, wrapping us up like a boa constrictor, squeezing the words out of the moment. It left us both shocked at what I had just uttered.
“My father would be proud of me,” He whispered, venom seeping out of each word.
“I’m going to serve my country. You, on the other hand...he would be ashamed of you. You’re pathetic. I hate you.” The door slammed behind him, and I watched from the window as stepped into the truck, already in uniform.
“Ma’am, what are you doing?” The call came from a soldier. He jogs over and I recognize him immediately.
“Davey?” I whisper, hope flooding through me. Recognition flickered in his sea blue eyes. I take him in. He looks tired, worn down. He seems decades older than he had, even though he has been gone for just five years.
“Mom?” The incredulous stare, the one I had seen a million times directed at friends and coworkers, is directed at me.
“Oh honey,” I smile weakly, my eyes starting to close, the world starting to fade. “I love you, baby.”
The war continued. Soldiers fought and died. No one took notice of one soldier in particular. He lay in the middle of the battlefield, crying, shaking a woman like a ragdoll, trying to wake her. No one saw as a bullet whizzed through the air and hit him squarely in the chest. No one noticed when he whispered, “I love you, too.” and when he collapsed into his mother’s arms, just as he had twenty years ago on a snowy Christmas night.