It’s Okay to be Proud

Written for https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/category/word-of-the-day/

Tomorrow will be a positive experience for me. A win-win situation. I am attending a writing retreat run by my local theatre, ‘‘The Cube’’. Fellow writers (of plays) allowing others to read their work and amateur actors reciting them aloud. If I am lucky, my play could be one of them.

I wrote my monologue a few years ago, called The Fawn. It is about a soldier, and the effects PTSD has on his life. He is out on a day trip with his son. He is driving to his house when he hits a fawn.

Reading through my printed manuscript it reminded me it is okay to be proud of what we have written.

I am looking forward to spending time with witty wordsmiths.

The Fawn

My ex-wife had rung me ten times in as many minutes.

I couldn’t explain,

she wouldn’t give me the chance.

Just stared at my shirt

and told Jack to get inside.

She hoisted herself on the doorstep

with arms folded in full battle mode –

just like my sergeant major

when he caught me smoking on duty.

I had so much to lose . . .

We had just been to the fair,

where a row of colourful flags whispered to the breeze,

for a Marksmen and all Good Sports.

Jack stopped at the shooting gallery.

He wanted me to win him the biggest lion there.

It had been six months since I picked up a rifle . . .

I didn’t miss one shot.

An hour past curfew,

I was only driving at 50 when

a figure appeared –

I couldn’t stop in time.

My car juddered to a halt –

Jack flung forward like a rag doll.

His body folded into the seat.

I hauled my fingers off the steering wheel,

my seatbelt snatched away in seconds.

Are you okay Jack?

His face was drained of any colour.

I reached out to him.

He clutched his lion to his chest

and stared through the windscreen into black.

Jack speak to me.

Are you okay?

My tummy hurts Daddy . . .

I launched out of my seat

and sprinted to his side.

I forced the door

and removed his seatbelt.

Stomach, chest, head –

I checked them all.

He wasn’t hurt.

F . . . hell . . .

I hugged him close

told him it was okay to cry,

that he was brave.

His little arms felt soft around my neck.

What’s that noise Daddy?

I could hear it too –

It wasn’t a scream

or a whimper,

but it was deafening all the same.

I’ll go check.

I won’t be long.

Stay here,

look after your lion.

Jack wiped a tear with the back of his hand

and did as exactly as he was told.

A tiny fawn . . .

thin legs nothing more than twigs.

I plunged down to the cold earth,

fumbled to find a pulse.

Her breaths, in tattered beats,

death still hours away.

A creature through the trees

let out a piercing scream;

then another – then another – then another.

Jack was still inside the car. 

I knew what I had to do,

I had done it before.

I singled out a rock

ragged and rough at the edges –

the perfect size and weight.

I couldn’t tell you how long I sat there

with it sat in the palm of my hand.

As brutal as the trigger of a gun,

harder to aim, no mates to share the blame . . .

In seconds

the screaming stopped,

but my thoughts carried on.

Daddy –

His voice a mere whisper beside me,

still clasping the lion in an iron like grip.

I saw my little boy

turn into a man before my eyes.

The rock hurtled to the floor

covered in a fine mist.

I buried my hands deep in my pockets.

Jack go back to the car please,

Daddy will be there in a minute.

He stared at the stone burning through moonlight,

mesmerized by scars now indented into its skin.

Jack!

Go back to the car and lock the doors.

He ran back

shattering the silence with his weeping.

It was only when I heard the lock of the door,

I wiped my hands on the grass,

but all it did was smear mud into the blood.

I picked up the gentle spirit,

the blood from its wounds warming my skin through my shirt.

I strode towards the clearing,

tunnelled a hole with my hands

and relinquished the fawn to the earth.

After I sheltered her with kaleidoscope leaves

I closed my eyes,

recited the Lord’s prayer –

our father, who art in heaven . . .

Jack’s eyes merged with the fawns,

my legs buckled.

I was propelled back to Kosovo –

back to the truck

blown into fragments,

limbs littering the road

like discarded Lego.

I missed Jack’s first words, first steps –

on his first day at nursery I was holding a grenade

when I should have been holding his hand.

I forced myself back to the present.

He needed me.

When I got back to the car

I wanted to comfort him,

to make it better.

Instead, I took a deep breath.

Buckle up Jack.

I looked at my mobile,

saw all those missed messages –

I started the car,

Living on Prayer was playing on full blast.

I didn’t want to know what Jack was thinking.

I didn’t want to know what I was thinking,

just concentrated on the humming of the engine.

You can’t leave her Daddy!

Why are you leaving her behind Daddy?

She is all alone and needs her mummy!

I gnawed the inside of my lip

and it drew blood.

Please don’t go!

My hands gripped around the steering wheel

like it was my own throat.

It then blurted out of nowhere.

It’s dead, Jack!

It’s lucky to be . . .

You’ll understand when you’re older.

I saw his face crumple, but he wouldn’t cry.

He pretended to sleep after that;

I didn’t try to wake him.

My foot plunged on the gas pedal

and the oak trees were quickly replaced with motorway signs.

Now I drove at ninety miles an hour

trying not to think about what his mum was going to say.

Every time I hit a pothole my bumper rattled

like a half-full jar of copper coins.

An empty bottle of vodka rolled out from under my seat –

I focussed on the road.

When my car stopped in the driveway

I told him we were home.

He didn’t utter a word,

just hugged his lion

close to his chest.

As we walked through the garden together,

Jack slipped his miniature hand into mine

and our palms squeezed together

Like the kiss of a raindrop.

His last words to me spoken with care –

I love you daddy, please don’t die . . . 

The front door was open before I had a chance to reply,

My wife stared at my shirt

and told Jack to get inside.

She hoisted herself on the doorstep

arms folded in full battle mode –

just like my sergeant major

when he caught me smoking on duty.

I had so much to lose . . .

I wanted to say, it wasn’t my fault

and the road was a black hole,

where the only face I could see

was a private called Dave.

Only eighteen years old,

but dead in a ditch all the same.

But I couldn’t

because in God’s eyes –

perhaps it was.