Bullets, Bodies, and Bottles
So I was on my way to work this morning when my Pandora played a song. It sounded familiar but different. Turns out it was the Five Finger Death Punch cover of Gone Away (from the Offspring). I had never heard this before and it really threw me.
So when I got to work I looked up the song on youtube to listen to it more. And when I saw the music video for it it grabbed me and didn't let go.
The concept of soldiers/military/war/brotherhood has always been one that's held on tightly to me. I've never served so I can't say I can grasp it. But I've always tried for the sake of understanding what it actually means to be thankful for those that do. It's... I can't put into words very well. But this song made me try.
So this is a short blurb. The stallion is meant to be my character Max. The others aren't as important in terms of who/what they are, but more what they mean to Max himself.
To any service members who read this. I apologize if it causes you distress. It's not my intent. It was honestly just raw emotion brought out by music put into word in whatever came to mind in it's development.
For those who haven't heard/seen it. This is the song and the video associated: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BIQK4-9YFW0
And for those wondering. This story doesn't have an actual ending. It's meant to just make you feel and you decide.
Thanks again for any who read. And even more for those who serve.
Max and story © myself
The stallion sits at the bar, staring down the bottle of his almost empty beer. He can't stand the taste, but he can't afford anything better. He blinks and he flashes back to the barrel in his face. The muzzle barks, the flash of light... he flinches there in the stool. Barely noticeable, no one else even catches it. He's back in the bar. He drains the rest of the drink and drops a few bills on the counter before he stands up and walks out. As he passes a booth near one of the TV's the place erupts. Local team just scored another touchdown. He pauses at the door and glances at the booth. He can remember them... all of them. Screaming just like everyone else. Laughing, cheering, placing bets. So many games... just like this one. It's Thanksgiving afternoon. People are happy, celebrating with families. Grateful... so very thankful. He used to love this day... now... now all it does is hurt.
He's at the gym now. He doesn't remember how he got here. His head hurts again, pounding like someone is beating him. He flashes back to that day. Bound on his knees... beaten, whipped. He snorts angrily and moves to one of the bags. No tape, no gloves, nothing to protect his hands. It doesn't matter anymore... he's just desperate to hit something. Desperate to let it all out before he explodes.
He strikes the bag. And feels the blow in his cheek. The ones from that day. They laugh at him, mock him. But they keep his arms tied. They'd seen his strength already before and know what he's capable of. He strikes the bag again, trying harder and harder to make something break, be it the bag or his hands. Every blow sends him back. Watching them... his friends... his brothers. Beaten... broken... screaming in rage and agony. He doesn't break. He refuses. He tells them to not give in for his sake... ever. No matter what they do, not to break for him.
His knuckles bruise, he can feel the bones in his hands screaming and splintering, threatening to break. He can still hear their screams. He can't tell if it's memories or his own as he tries to tear the bag clean off the chain. The metal groans, grinding until it finally snaps and he falls.
He's back in that damned place. Laying on his side. One eye swollen shut as he watches them beat his youngest friend. Only 19. They promised to look after him. He promised his mother. And now he sees the blood spilling from the wolf's maw as his ribs are cracked and broken from repeated kicks. He screams again, reaching for something... anything to help.
He collapses to his knees in the graveyard. At their tombstones. His brothers... lined up in front of him. The rain has soaked his clothes, his fur, his skin. It's ice cold... numb... and not just on the outside. He can't stop screaming. All he wants it to trade places with them... to give up and bring them back. He can't get them out of his head. Their families... wives... mothers... it's all too much. He grabs his service pistol... points it at his head. This time... this time he'll do it right. This time he won't miss like those bastards did. Brothers... until the end.
He's back there again... Screaming at the top of his lungs. No words, just pure... agonizing hatred for the figures before him. To him they're not people. They're bodies. They're already dead. He just has to finish it. But he can't... they're holding him back as he screams. They want him to watch. One by one... the bullets tear through flesh... blood and bone fling across the room. His friends drop one at a time. Dead... never to laugh, never to smile, never to joke with him ever again. He promised them he'd take care of them. He was promoted to their leader... and they were gone. The last... the youngest...
He's back in the graveyard. Finger on the trigger, staring at James' tombstone. 19... fucking years old... not even old enough to drink. Gone... he'll never forget the look on his mother's face when she first saw him after it all happened. He'll never forget the look on James' face. So young... so scared... as he felt the barrel of the rifle press to his head. Still warm from the previous shots. He can tell James can smell the blood... the kid utters one word...
"Max?..."
There's a bang and he's back in the graveyard. Screaming again. His voice sounds almost bloodied from how hoarse it is. He can't stop... it hurts too much. He can't keep going. All he wants is for it all to end.
Then he remembers it... clear as day. They move to him... they put the rifle in his mouth, making him taste his friend's blood. The one holding it just grins at him. He doesn't say a word... he pulls the trigger.
The stallion falls back in the graveyard. He feels the scar on the back of his head burning horribly as he relives the moment he received it. His jaw is always sore... part of it blown out... dozens of surgeries to put him back together... a miracle he survived... a miracle...
No... a curse...
He raises the pistol again one last time. He opens his mouth, lines it up right this time. No more mistakes. No more misses. No more failures.
With a final cry of sheer agony... he pulls the trigger...