Through the Unconscious Looking Glass

Angelic: it’s the only word to describe it. Falling like sweet manna, it was a divine provision but a vain attempt at joy. The flakes of snow, as fine as frost, were glistening iridescently in the moon’s enchanting light as they fell into oblivion: into the void. Alexander watched as they fell into vanity, just as his life had.

Thunderous. Deafening. Commanding. The cries of dying men; fading souls muffled by the maniacal screams of malevolent guns. Shells, bullets, gas- everywhere. Sanity, hope, survival- nowhere. In the wintry weather, bodies like snow crystals surrendered themselves innocently to the ground- each one young, individual; each one becoming fertiliser for the sanguinary Western Front.

He no longer cried about these flashbacks. He no longer responded with any emotion to anything really. They said he had Depression and Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and that it was common for veterans. He said that he had been raped by the domineering government and its abusive propaganda. “Our policy is to wage war against tyranny,” Churchill had said. War is the tyranny.

Alexander gazed across his city; sedated and asleep, cast under the spell of enigma and uncertainty.Salisbury was once a beautiful place. Once. Most of it was now the decaying ruins of a temporally deepening dereliction. Then again, so was he. Through the window that had become the unconscious looking glass into his life, Alexander caught a glimpse of disturbance. A small light flickered on in the church. Weird. Eucharist is on the Sunday and the bell-ringers don’t practice until Tuesday night. Sarum St. Martin is never open on a Monday. Never. He hadn’t been to the church in years- not since his mother’s death. Despite this, he fell into curiosity’s tempting and inviting arms. Draping his navy coat over his body, he made his way down the staircase. Opening the door, which welcomed a gush of wind into his small, aging house, he took a step out of his confinement; his comfortable luxury succeeded by his own curiosity. As he ambled briskly down the ice-covered path, the icy breeze stung his face like a freezing kiss. It was like the kiss of death, something he knew all too well.

They were trudging through the blood-saturated mud, chilled air causing his hair to stand on end. Then, “To arms!” and all were in formation, man with gun, man with gun- in a line, in a hole, like rabbits just waiting to be hunted. Alexander gazed over the vast, debris-laden fields. Explosion! Combustion! Asphyxiation! These were the matinee to the finale. “Victory!” shouts one man, comrade to many, a brother to all. Tearing through his flesh are aggressive bullets. One in the stomach, two in the chest. He plummets from spontaneity wrapped with courage into capitulation unto enemy endeavour, the ‘claret’ splattering sacrificially across the altar that was once a field of white poppies. It became an instance of purity’s concealment by anger and unnecessary bloodshed.

Finally, he reached the stained-chestnut door to the antique ecclesia. Neither a car nor a bicycle was parked near the building so Alexander made his way in, stumbling over the threshold and into a very dimly candle-lit sanctuary. He set foot up the hall, footsteps reverberating off of the solid stone walls, heading straight toward the candles at the canopy. As he passed the final few rows of pews, he turned and then a yelp escaped his larynx. Movement. Human movement. He searched and looked and then found the person again. It was a little child, no more than four feet from head to toe with a mop of brown hair atop his head.

Alexander demanded, “Who are you?” It was succinct, concise; a little assertive.
“You don’t remember me?” the child questioned derisively. “You sold me to go to war even though I begged you to keep me, to cherish me and to hold me close. You were only thirteen! You traded my life for the destruction of your own. I am your childhood. I am your juvenile innocence.”

Alexander’s knees gave way, his limp body crumpling under the unbearable weight of grief and brokenness. Breaking through the dam of unresolved emotion, tears cascaded down his war-ravaged cheeks like theRhineitself, each bead of transparency conveying a heart-wrenching piece of his fractured life. “I’m sorry!” He cried, gasping for air; gasping for forgiveness, for a renewed and purified internality. He longed for sweet transposition- carnality to sacred eternity, infinite hope. “I’m sorry!” He wept again.

His lachrymose melody grew louder in crescendo, as did the rhythm of echoing footsteps. Wiping his eyes on the edge of his sleeve, Alexander turned to see the Parish Priest. “Hello father,” he extended his hand.
“Call me David.” The priest smiled, shaking Alexander’s hand before kneeling beside him.
Alexander returned his focus to the boy, but he was gone. “Did you see the boy? The one just there?” he asked the Parish Priest, pointing.
In reply, Father David said, “You are standing in front of a mirror. There was nobody there except you.”
He stared blankly at the mirror. The tears had ceased. Where was the boy? What was going on?
“Alexander, you cannot keep doing this,” the Priest told him.
“What?” Alexander replied in perplexity, “Keep doing this? This has never happened before.”
“Alex, that’s what you said last time… and the time before. I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. Evensong starts in a couple of hours and we can’t have you just sitting here during the service.”
“Evensong… but it’s Monday,” Alexander was so confused. It was as if everything was in free-fall. It was as if his life was still falling apart.
“It’s Sunday. And it’s 1952.” The Priest shook his head. “You need sleep.”

Alexander stood up, straightened himself and walked out after farewelling the priest. He was sure it was Monday. He was certain. As he left the church, cold hit him again. The sun was beginning to break out of the night’s captivity and Alexander could see the restoration efforts on all of the buildings- attempts to band-aid sensitive wounds. When he finally reached his gate, he halted.

He was walking down the path. It was supposed to be the path of freedom. De-commissioned on Sunday and walking home on Monday. He grasped the gate with his bandaged hand. It was Monday, September 1, 1945. He could taste familiarity as it wafted into his nostrils; into his mind, into his heart. It was bittersweet. More bitter, if anything.

They had won the victory overEurope. He had lost the victory over his soul. They were free from fighting in the war. Every second of everyday, Alexander was fighting an intrinsic war that imprisoned him: it chained him in psychological, emotional and spiritual manipulation. As he walked into his home, he looked up. There was a photo of him as a child. Smiling. Enjoying life. Consumed with euphoria. Alexander hadn’t smiled in almost seven years.

What a story! You told it masterfully and with eloquence. I like how you decided not to give it the good ending many might expect. It really highlights the destruction that war can have on the hearts of its soldiers.

this was a contest entry and i had hoped you would post it again, thank you.

P.S. Paragraphs two, five and the second last one are meant to be in italics!

Wow, I really enjoyed this! No wonder it was a contest winner!