#the format of this got a lil fucked b/c tumblr sucks but w/e
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CHARACTERS: Mikala Seabrooke, various NPCs.
THEMES: Mikala's experiences in the military and all of the extremely undiagnosed PTSD we (A.K.A. he) doesn't talk about as a result of his time serving.
CONTENT WARNINGS: War, injury, near death experience, death, gore, guns, slightly sexually suggestive themes, etc.
This clipping from the paper shows us young and strong and clean;
And there's me, in my slouch hat, with my SLR and greens.
God help me, I was only nineteen.
1983. Freshly eighteen and out of high school with the world as his oyster. He throws it all away, much to the pleading of his lonesome mother.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Mikala?" As a frail hand smooths out the shoulders of his brand new uniform, as if trying to make it—him—pristine. Just behind him, his brothers sit in urns on the fireplace, displayed neatly with their respective medals.
"It's too late now, makuahine," he murmurs back, with a tender smile towards his mother. A smile untouched by death, cruelty, time. The tears in her eyes are ignored.
And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And night time's just a jungle dark and a barking M16?
And what's this rash that comes and goes?
Can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.
1984. The floor of the forest is hot, it's too goddamn hot, yet he feels cold all over. The type of chill that digs deep into your bones. He's fading in and out of consciousness as the medic does their damnedest to put him back together again.
The blast of an M16 rifle is a brutal one. There is no entrance or exit wound, only a smashed and dented armor plate tossed to the side. His ribs are broken, badly enough that they've penetrated and ruptured his spleen. His lung is missed by mere centimeters. He supposes he's lucky.
"Stick with me, man," he thinks he hears. It makes him angry. He's goddamn angry at this person saving his life. He's angrier at the pain he's in, the sharp cry he lets out when his torso is splayed the fuck apart with a scalpel, and he thinks vomit and blood comes up with the pained noise.
His head is tilted sideways by the soldier at his side so he doesn't fucking choke on it. He supposes he's lucky.
A four-week operation when each step can mean your last one on two legs;
It was a war within yourself.
But you wouldn't let your mates down 'til they had you dusted off,
So you closed your eyes and thought about somethin' else.
1985. Back in the game after a forced sabbatical of sorts, only without a spleen, which he learned back in '84 that you can live without one of those. He had asked what that meant for him long-term and, as it turns out, not much. Except, he gets sick a lot easier lately because his immune system is compromised now, and he's informed to keep an eye on his iron for worry of anemia.
Gunfire and calamity have ceased, if only for now, but he's so far removed from it and his companions currently. Soon, his superiors will look for him. For now, he is staring at the growing puddle of blood beneath him and his victim.
They're deceased by now. He's learned that the human body has its limits but, by God, it takes quite some time to get there. He has what he wanted, more than that, and now he will set the scene to his liking. Like he was never there.
All is forgiven when he delivers pertinent information to his superiors the day after. When he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift to fresh memories of his acts, tainted by viscera and malice, he sleeps better than he has in months.
And then someone yelled out "Contact, front!" and the bloke behind me swore;
We hooked in there for hours, then a God-almighty roar.
Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon;
God help me, he was going home in June.
1988. He's laughing. He's fucking laughing, and it's earnest, and it's tender. He has his shirt lifted up, exposing the scar along his abdomen to his battle buddy. When a finger trails down it, the muscles beneath ripple and tense, and he swears to no deity in particular that it sets his skin alight.
Eyes lock for a lengthy amount of time. There's a darkness in his own, and a kindness in the other's. A man of his age, both having served for the same amount of time, and yet only he is tainted by it all; driven by bloodlust.
Lips meet. Lips, and tongue, and teeth. In the shelter of darkness, they may touch. They may be themselves, unapologetically and wholeheartedly.
By the end of this carnal meeting between two lonely men, his hands are trembling as he laces his boots.
A week afterwards, he watches his battle buddy misstep. He watches the mist of blood, and guts, and limbs, with a void in his eyes. Why are there so many fucking limbs?
He doesn't look away because he isn't weak. He isn't a fucking coward, unlike many of the shell-shocked men around him. Another week passes, and he sends a letter to the man's family, apologizing for their loss.
And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears;
And stories that my father told me never seemed quite real.
I caught some pieces in my back that I didn't even feel.
God help me, I was only nineteen.
1989. It's the beginning of spring and while he doesn't celebrate his birthday, it's around the corner, and his mother made damn sure that a letter and a gift would get to him in time. It came early.
Beneath her letter, one from his father. His estranged father who never cared before. In this letter, there are details of this stranger's own stories in the military. Something heartfelt about regret, and being proud of his son, and whatever else that he feels nothing while reading.
Just before he writes a 'thank you' note to his mother, cold and curt, he tosses the letter his father sent into the nearest garbage bin.
When he comes back home to New York City, he's arrested within the month. He doesn't fight for man's freedom this time but rather, his own.
And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to my feet?
And what's this rash that comes and goes?
Can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.
2021. Just as retirement came, so did the latest and greatest illness to take over his body. He has spent the last week reading, mostly, alongside tying up loose ends with his business.
The funeral home has been sold by now. Dead and gone, as are many things in his life. He's neither excited nor sad about it. He feels little of anything, really, about what is merely an end. Except, his hands are a little more idle and, in his attempts to hide how ill he is from a spider bite of all things, he focuses on the finishing details of closing out this chapter.
It's all stacks of books, and paperwork, and why is the television so damn loud? He snatches the remote and clicks it off as the news channel drones on and on about the newest tragedy. The newest war.
It looks like annoyance, and it is, mostly. Even in solitude, he doesn't show weakness. Instead, he continues oscillating between working and reading in silence, until his headache becomes too much and the itch where the bite is gets on his last nerves.
Eventually, this and the growing nausea put him down for a nap until his husband gets home. Then, he will continue to act as if all is well, all is normal. Stoic to a fault, he always is.
#〈 🩸 — ; isms. 〉#do u ever listen to songs abt war on repeat for multiple hours and then a self para happens#the format of this got a lil fucked b/c tumblr sucks but w/e
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