Dream of a Soldier

Scars. A terrifying word to some, to others a trophy, tattooed onto their skin as a sign of strength. That’s what I had thought. 

A young, foolish woman she was, slinging a bundle of clothes over her ridged shoulders as the pride of stepping away from her childhood home sparked a defiant grin within her heart of stone.  

I rocked back in the antique chair, groaning with the little pressure it had to hold up. The silence hung heftily over the eerie creak of a wall somewhere in the vast hallways. My rocker moaned again.  

I glanced out the window, peering through the sun at two little girls, bright-eyed and oblivious to the world outside the walls of the country, one tapping the ball with her Converse sneaker and threw her head back, laughter echoing through the open window.  

And into the halls, where something creaked. Down the empty hallways, I heard the laughter, chipping away at the heart of titanium I had created. Or rather, a bullet had created. 

“Um, miss?” My eyes, pupils straining to push weariness to the corners, set on the little Converse sneaker. Then to a bright-eyed little girl. Oceans of emotions crashed up to the shore of her iris, flecks of different highlights of feelings and experiences crashing onto the bay and rippling away.  

“Yes, darling?” Her oceans stilled, darkening with a rainstorm, her lip trembling as they fell beneath my eyes, beneath my head, to my neck.  

“C-can I have my ball? It, well, rolled down your hallway,” her tone reached a squeak by the end of it, shrinking away.  

“I’ll go get it for you.” And down the hallway I went, the same one I had walked down every morning and every night. Creak...groan....creak. Sunrays streaked my path through a single, bare window, stretching across my feet with the shadows cast from an old, overgrown tree outside.  

A ball caught my eye in the corner, and I bend down to scoop it up, straightening my resilient joints, groaning like my antique rocker.  

“Here you go.” I found the little girl gazing at the portrait on the wall. The only portrait on the wall, a single picture of someone I knew long ago, someone I had disconnected myself from, learning from the mistakes and moving on. Yet I still had a picture of me on that wall. 

“Is this you?” I wistfully gazed at the picture, limbering over and sliding it off its hook.  

“It sure was.” I set the ball down, and the girl’s eyes fell onto my neck once again.  

“What happened?” I let out a tiny chuckle, tired eyes sweeping over the old photo, withering at the edges and fading at the four sections where it had been folded time and time again. 

“A childhood dream.” I sat back into the rocker, running my finger over the dusty edge of the portrait, blowing on the foggy glass that enclosed the picture. The faded colors of the American flag on that photo stilled my heart, the titanium bracing for another bullet. And standing in front of that flag was a young woman, age of twenty-two, proudly saluting to the country she had lived in and was willing to die for, unblemished both inside and out. “That died long ago.”  

Her giant blue oceans started to stir, crashing onto shore and rising with the wind, throwing themselves up into the whirling air. “You were a soldier?”  

A tiny grin tugged at the corners of my lips. “I was the commanding officer.”  

… 

Five thousand soldiers, under the command of that twenty-two-year-old, a foolish one at that, and willing to die. Trekking through the silent halls of the army base, heart pounding. Gun in the trembling hands of that young woman, baggy camouflage uniform brushing against the corner. She didn’t know if her dream would ever come true. “Commander, ready to deploy.”  

That little girl came back, the ocean eyes brightening, the sunshine over the water reflecting off the rippling waves. “My mother wanted me to bring you this.” She held her arms out, curled under a foil container, draped in a weathered, checkered cloth. The delicious aroma of casserole curled up my nose, loosening my tight shoulder blades.  

She beaconed with the steaming plate again, and I smiled appreciatively, gingerly taking up the casserole and tipping my head for her to follow behind me. She stepped behind me, almost as if she was in a line.  

The soldiers stomped along the path, perfect unison with each beat of a footstep, resounding in the earth with the heartbeat of terror as they stepped behind their officer, almost as pale as the moonlight shining above them, and reflecting on the oceans of her iris. 

I set the dish down on my granite island, darkened by the emptiness of the room, nothing but the light suffocated by the curtains and straining to shed itself on the weathered wood floors to light the room.  

“My mommy said you were brave. What did you do?” I drew out a chair from my table, lowering myself down into the wood and motioned for her to do the same.  

She took a seat and rested her chin in her cupped palms, gazing at me with question. I took a deep breath and sighed. “Brave...maybe. Battle is no place for children’s play, I soon figured that out.” She gazed past my eyes to my neck again.  

“The scar, how did you get it?” My trembling finger reached up to trace the scar from the bottom of my cheekbone to the end of my shoulder. A vivid scar, jagged edges, ripping through my skin with a painfully light inside, fading to my skin color. Yet there was no sign of stitches ever used on that wound. Because there never had been. 

“To save someone is to know you may lose yourself.” 

Battle, a horrific, gory, heart wrenching field of bullets flying and bombs dropping. Screams of blood and murder echoed in her ears, pounding the woman’s head, cocking her gun and taking out an opposing soldier. Protecting her country, she justified, protecting herself. Hardly enough to convince her.  

A familiar scream erupted from the field, one of her soldiers. Her gun dug into her shoulder as she held the trigger to her machine gun and ran from the dead soldiers. Writhing on the floor was one of her men, blood pooling from the stomach, eyes dilated wide. He trembled something fierce, sweating harder than the bullets raining down from the planes above. Blood, the key to both life and death, pouring out of that helpless young man, staring at her with pleading eyes as he gripped his stomach. Dropping to her knees, she finally understood her dream. A childhood of heroic dreams turned into nightmares of blood. A hero wouldn’t cry. But she did.   

“Did you save someone?” 

“I killed to save.” A heart wrenching concept, one I shoved to the back of my mind, with all the other war memories shoved in the cobwebs where the monsters of my sleep hid inside of.  

… 

After a night of the terror of dreams of the battlefield, I rocked in my chair. Back and forth I swayed. It creaked. I sighed. It echoed through the room.  

And into the halls, where something creaked.  

That little girl came back, converse sneakers, ocean eyes, bright expression. “Can you tell me the story of how you saved the person? My mommy said to not ask too many questions, and leave you alone, but I just really wanted to know,” she paused to look up at me, “is that okay?” My lips curved into a weary grin. Yet my heart of titanium braced itself for the bullet. Again and again, I had scolded myself. The plane ride back, the nights afterward, the years afterward. And it was tattooed onto my skin, a trophy and a curse. A reminder of who I used to be and how I failed my own country.  

“Why don’t you sit down?”  

Tears in his own commander’s eyes, she heaved him onto her shoulder, bracing her other side with her gun and using it to claw her way across the battlefield. His limp body fell unmoving, just the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. The sun beat down on the two easy targets. This is what I was born to do, she told herself, this was my dream of heroism. This was where she would save the day and be honored for it by the general himself, saluting her with pride.  

But it all felt different. The dreams made her feel empowered and strong, swiftly carrying someone through the battlefield without breaking a sweat.  

Her muscled burned like they had been set on fire as she shoved her way through her own soldiers, face burning with embarrassment, to the little red tent at the bay of the oceans. Her ocean eyes were as dark as the clouds above the water. And her tears were like the rain that poured down atop her frail shoulders. 

I gazed at the little girl and bowed my head, drawing the memories from behind and grasping them with a hint of fear. “A man, one of my soldiers, I had been close with him. He and I had trained together.” 

“Are you in love with him? Did you save him from an evil person? And invader? Where is he now?” She pounded me with questions, leaning closer to the table, shining with interest. I felt a bullet crack against the titanium.  

“Let me finish, darling.” She quieted and tipped her chin into her hands again. “We were deployed to war. He was probably as scared as I was. But he was a brave man, I'll give him that much. On the battlefield, he got shot in the stomach.”  

Her face paled and she gasped. “No,” she breathed. There was no question. Just horror.  

She dropped him in the tent, onto the floor of dust, searching desperately for a pulse. A little thump made her lift her chin and cry for help. There was no medic anywhere to be found. The tent had been deserted. She desperately tried to rummage through boxes and kits, looted and left scattered, for anything to soak up the blood. She took a shaky breath and removed her own jacket, leaving her shoulders bare and pressed it on the open wound.  

A burst of laughter echoed in her ears behind her. She scrambled up, blocking the man on the dirt. Just as she turned, a gun fired and she screamed, her shoulder digging into the dirt as she screamed. Pain. Real pain. No, torture. It was indescribable, nor did she ever want to describe them. She wanted to die. Sadly, the man got that reward with the next bullet. The world blurred out after that shot... 

“I brought him back to the medical tent and tried to help him. But he was shot dead by soldiers and I was shot in the shoulder.” Tears welled up in her eyes, the oceans finally brimming from the iris and spilling.  

“I’m so sorry!”  

“I’m no hero, darling. I only wish I could have been.” My chair squeaked when I rocked back, and suddenly the sound of wheels unmistakably reverberated in my ears. My head was surged with a headache as I groaned, leaning back into my chair. The back became soft, and I felt the sensation I was lying flat on my back.  

“Commander?” the little girl stood up, leaning over me, waving her hand. Her voice, growing gravelly, echoed in the room. 

And into the halls, where something creaked. 

I groaned with the fresh torment of my throbbing shoulder. When I looked down at it, it was just a scar. “What’s going on?”  

“Stay with us, Commander,” the little girl’s voice had grown deep, the voice of a man I knew. The monsters that lurked in my dreams seemed as if they had been set loose. My windows shattered and a bullet dug into my picture on the wall, puncturing a hole through the flag. Opposing soldiers climbed through every open window, out from the trees that shadowed the light, through the curtains that suffocated the sunshine, and crawled toward me, guns loaded and aimed at me and the little girl. She stood calmly between all the commotion.  

“Get out!” I couldn’t scream. I could just whisper hoarsely as I found myself staring up at the ceiling, where a bright light shone from above. “Get out of here!” A doozey sensation grasped my mind, pulling me into a pit of darkness. I could just watch the little girl get engulfed in the mob of soldiers.  

… 

I woke in a cold sweat, dripping down my temple and onto a pool of liquid on my shoulder, wrapped tightly. “Commander?” The voice of a man, a soothing voice of a man. One I had heard before. There was a creak. Everything seemed distant. Anything but the wrenching, throbbing pain searing through my arm. It hurt. That was as much as I could comprehend. I hurt. “Commander? Are you awake?”  

I peeled my eyes open, pierced by stabbing light. I blinked to focus. A clean hospital room surrounded me. The crisp smell of antiseptic surrounded me as I lie on a hospital bed with tubes dangling on a machine, poking my skin and a monitor beeping steadily. “Yes,” I groaned, the air scratching my throat violently.  

A man found his way to the side of my hospital bed. One I had seen before. I vaguely remembered him, he was in my dream, distantly, but the memory of his blood haunted my mind. But Matthew wasn’t dead. He had been my friend through training and was one of my soldiers. We had been deployed in an ugly war, one I remember very little of. “Matthew, what happened?” He grinned.  

“You were lucky, Commander.” He winked at me. “Took a bullet in the shoulder and fought ‘till you dropped. Found you unconscious in the middle of the battlefield and I brought you back. Won because of you, you took down their officer with that aim.” The memories slowly started to float toward me, just waiting for me to grasp them. I pushed them back. If it was war, I didn’t want to remember much.  

Matthew stuffed something in his pocket. I caught sight of a sneaker. “Matthew, what’s that?” he grinned, pulling it out and opening it in the four sections it had been opened and folded over and over again, wearing away. My distant dream prodded me to look down, as if I knew this picture. There was a girl, brown hair pulled neatly in a ponytail, smiling for the camera with Matthew standing next to her, his arm wrapped around her lovingly with his camo uniform on. I glanced down to see a ball. And converse sneakers. The girl from my dream...  

“That’s my sister. I had come back to see her and she was so excited.” I smiled, forgetting about my shoulder.  

“Now, when do I get off these tubes? We have some shooting practice to attend!” He chuckled, sticking his hands out in a calming gesture as if he was taming a wild animal.  

“Whoa there, you’re not going anywhere anytime soon. Our unit won’t be deployed for a while, they want you to recover. We need you, Commander.”  

I gazed into his eyes, the same ocean eyes as his sister had in my dream, rippling away from shore, beckoning me to near the water.  

It had been such a vivid dream, Matthew lying there, bleeding to death, or talking through my story with a little girl like I had seen the world and all its pain. And the creaking of my rocker.  

One thing the dream had gotten right, being a soldier had been my childhood dream. I was much like that little girl. I had been oblivious to the pain of the world and wanted to save America. And maybe my dream came true. Hopefully the rest wouldn’t.  

And that scar? It’s a trophy.