Embedded Files
The cold sand feels refreshing at my fingertips, but the remaining sections of my hands begin to tire of such a repetitive resting against such stiff, white sand. It doesn’t even dispel at the imprinting of my palms. The cold sand never pulls away from itself; it only stays clumped together in bubbles across this lonely beach. White sand mixes well with the white sky that blends its way into the white sea.
Sunlight pours over the thin horizon of clouds that stand thirty degrees over the ending of the waves. Pink and orange sunlight flow over the waves of the water that looks just like the sand I sit upon. Light dances over the ripples like dolphins flipping to demonstrate their joy of the beauty in this land. What a life!
Ah, such a glorious sight. I lie here all day; day after day, and watch this same sunset over and over. Nothing changes or remains the same in this place. It is all just so perfect here. Until the sun goes down, I watch this pretty sight painted by the world’s best artists. How lucky am I?
But… I hate when the sun goes down. These two men come onto my private beach and tell me it’s time to go. I don’t understand why I have to listen to them. I outrank them! I am a Major, dammit! I shouldn’t have to listen to peons that stand hunched in their starched white uniforms and held no firearms; or any substantial merit in my eyes. No Colt 45 rested within a holster; no silvery body polished down the heavy handle or pitch-black grip. Pitiful men, really.
I have earned my right to stay here and watch this sunset. I have served my time in the worst of deserts and jungles. The sun invites me back every day and watches me with the same content stare I’ve given it all these years.
The final seconds of the sunset… 3…2…1… And like clockwork the two men in their starch white uniforms and name tags, without words of any importance, encased in the laminated bars. They both walk out, almost hand in hand, to pull me from my paradise. I feel the synchronous marching of two pairs of boots only meters behind me upon my white beach. I draw a deep breath and close my eyes to pray goodnight to the sky that seems to perfect for a man like me.
“I don’t need you to interrupt me every damn day. I know the time and the way,” I push off against the clumped white sand and turn to face the two men with open eyes. My hands slide against my clothes to brush the sand off, but not a single grain had left its brothers upon the beach.
The two men nod and move to the sides as though they would salute me as I pass between them, but I know they won’t. They will just stand there and watch me with judging eyes as I pass them by; and those childish smirks. One of them has been drinking. The smell of alcohol; possibly a type of whiskey, fills the fresh air of my beach, “Straighten up you two!” The two men’s eyes open wide as both snap into a straight standing position. “For God’s sake man!” I shoot a look to the man on my right, “I can smell the booze on your breath; on duty, none the less.” I continue to walk by them with disappointment in my mutterings and a shaking head. What kind of soldiers are these men?
The door leading away from my beach is wide open for me. A long hallway stretches in both directions, left and right, as far as I can see. Four footsteps sound out behind me. They follow me from a distance while I trudge down the hallway; I stop once in a while to hear them pause behind me. The air in these halls is filled to the brim with the scent of mold and urine, but not a damn soul is willing to do a fucking thing about it. These boys have no worth in the ranks. I’m finally permitted leave from the army and this is how I’m repaid.
Pathetic.
No one even bothers to turn up the heat in this hellhole. I just keep marching down the hallway until I arrive at the door I am led to every sundown. I turn on my heels to face that thin deadwood door. Blacks and browns blend in a gut-wrenching, moldy fashion to emanate the corresponding smell from every crevice along the stained wood’s body. I don’t even like touching the handle to walk in. I fear the disease that afflicts the wood may spread to my hands; overtake to the rest of me. The man behind this wood radiates with the same energy as the decaying door that protects him from his duties.
“Good evening Mr. Anders. How are you feeling today?”
“The same I feel every other day, Sir.” I stand straight in my kempt uniform.
His hand motions for me to take a seat, but he quickly withdraws the outstretched hand when I straightened my back to that of the great oak. The man behind the desk does the same thing every day, week, month. He fixes his white coat and lines the name plate that shines with golden letters to the end of the desk. I read over those same letters I watch be repositioned every time we begin our sessions; D-R.-H-A-R-R-I-S-O-N. After that he will do the same things in the same order. He will fix his glasses by tilting them to the left and then to the right and then back into the same position they rested at seconds ago. Next is where he will open the vanilla folder on his desk that is bloated with documents, all pertaining to me, and grab out the most recent paper while clearing his throat. The two men in their starch white uniforms remain behind me and close the door quietly as to not break the dramatic tension of a repeating play.
“You indeed have been doing well these last few days.” He looks up at me over the rim of those glasses that shield his stare from my own on every other occasion, but now he stares back at me with confidence as though his glancing will burrow into me and create that reaction he longs to see. “No violent incidents or damages to property as far as I can see.” He drops his eyes back down to the document in his wrinkled fingers.
“If I may, sir,” I wait until I see him give me a nod of approval to continue my thought, “I still retain my argument that I am not trouble until I am provoked by one of your men.” I turn my head to the man on my right who is staring through narrowed lids and an invisible aroma of whiskey; his neck thickens as a heavy stone slides down his throat.
“These men are only trying to aid you in your recovery,” the two men behind me shuffled so quietly it echoes in my ears as I watched the Doctor place the paper on the table and entwine his shaking fingers before his nose. “We are only here to help, Mr. Anders.”
My eyes scan the room while his words fall short from the damned shuffling I hear behind me. They make me uneasy; these men that have no business in the ranks are all kept here to watch me on my leave. The shuffling continues behind me, and I can’t stand it. I am tired. O’ so tired of hearing this shit day after day that I’m a problem when I’m simply defending myself against the antics of pitiful, lesser men. They are no better than the other “officers” I put into place over the last few weeks.
“What do you have to say?” The words come from behind those cavernous hands. I have nothing that wouldn’t be the same words repeated over days, weeks, months, and years.
The room is filled with memories and idols of past lives, but nothing that would make me feel safer in this place of breakthrough and care. These men want to help, but why am I being restrained in my leave for their helping?
“Sir,” the two men behind me shuffle once more to stand at attention and listen to the words that come from my lips,” Your men are a nuisance.”
The doctor shuts his eyes and sighs a low and deep disappointed breath. The two men behind me don’t shuffle or move. They wait, just as I do, for an order from their superior. The doctor opens those fading brown eyes to page through the thick file stamped with my name. After a seeming hour of painful, silent searching, he pulls a single sheet from the stack just as before. “You record,” he clears his throat just as every other reading he has ever done for me, “is eight members of my staff knocked unconscious, twenty-four broken bones inflicted upon those who have ‘created conflicted’ with you, and countless trips to the nurses’ wing for reasons that stretch from anywhere between bloody noses to potentially dislocated or broken limbs.” The doctor’s eyes disappear behind the shiny white hair that falls over his face while he pushes away from the desk and struggles to stand. “I’ve begun treating my own employees due to your antics.”
“All justified, Sir.”
The old man’s head lifts quickly for his petrified eyes to burn into mine; so little life left in them. “You were justified in almost killing multiple of my men while they were only following orders?”
“Orders, Sir?”
The room grows heavy with anticipation and a damp tension; almost tangible. Like being back in the thick of it—a fog of silence rolling through the jungle before the trees begin to shout. The shuffling and deepened stares have stopped. All that exists in this room now is the doctor and myself; his eyes now full and open like the moon that I never see from my beach’s shores.
“What orders do you speak of?” I had done nothing but sit on my beach and stare up into the sky for an opportunity to relax and escape the gratuitous memories that have filled my head. The jungles and deserts filled with the bodies of men and women; deceased by the actions of mankind and the orders they give. I have been away from my paradise too long—for the past is returning. Days, weeks, months, years. It’s all there, behind the orders of lesser or greater men… only God will know.
“You have been belligerent, Mr. Anders.” Panic begins to slip into his eyes. I’ve seen that look just before thunder rings out—making man a god for a single moment. “You have been given chance after chance to get better. We try to help you.”
“Shut up,” my head swings low, but my shoulders remain straight. I would’ve never passed basic with this pose. The doctor is sending his men to my beach… on my leave… to cause trouble for me. “So, they were just following orders?”
Orders. Those people in the desert that had fallen by my rifle and my 5.56 caliber rounds, or by the guns of my brothers, lined the roads paved by orders. We suffered loses on both sides. I lost brothers and sisters out there to the boiling heat and the molten sand. Even the jungles tells the same stories. I’ve earned my time in my paradise, and they’re doing everything in their power to destroy that perfect place of solitude. Those people that floated in murky water, those people that cooked in the blazing sunlight, and those few who suffer through those memories in an attempt to survive in a world that sent them through such a Hell. We all suffered.
By orders of lesser or greater men. Days, weeks, months, years.
It’s all lead to this moment. Everything I… we’ve done. It’s all brought me to hang my head and wish solely for uninterrupted solitude.
“Mr. Anders,” one of the two men behind moves one foot forward, and I can smell the alcoholic fog moving toward me, “Let us bring you back to your—”
“I’m not done,” I turn my head just far enough that I can see his eyes. I tear into him with that stare. I see him freeze as though the cold wind from the hallway has frozen him in mold and icy piss. I would continue staring and burrowing deep into his brain, but the doctor’s movements set off my curiosity. With a quick snap of my neck, I’m staring back at the ancient man. “You aren’t fit for this office,” my right foot lifts. With that step, I hear shuffling behind me, but the doctor has outstayed his welcome near my paradise; the only place that keeps the floating faces away.
“Mr. Anders,” the doctor pushes away from his desk and leans up against the wall behind him where the hanging pictures are now swinging and falling to the floor. Success stories, diplomas, family… it means nothing when the order is given. “You aren’t well! You need to let us help you. You need to do as you’re told!”
Do as I’m told? I have always done as I was told. My feet continue to march me to the desk, past the chairs, and around the table’s corner. My vision’s blurry, but it’s the same as I remember it. The chasing and the killing are always the same. I’d done it all because it was what I was told; and I did it without question… because I was just following orders.
In the name of a country I love, I took steps like I am now. I followed one soft foot with the other in order to protect the freedoms we believed to have been challenged. Even I believed that it was right. For greater or lesser men, we sought atrocities and found them… birthed them. I carry this unholy child evermore.
“Mr. Anders!” The doctor keeps pushing against lamps and chairs to stay just outside of my reach, but I never stop moving. One large foot after another brings me closer to the doctor over the ever-changing distance between us.
“Just following orders.” The words echo in my brain, but my lips repeat them softly with each step. “Just following orders.” Another step takes me close enough to reach out and grab the white coat of the fleeing doctor, but something brings me to a halt; something brings my fading vision new sights. Countless faces staring with lifeless eyes; faces that exist in murky water and burning sun.
My head is spinning away from the doctor in white, and I see a starch white sleeve near my shoulder. A needle is stuck deep into my flesh. The world is slipping from me, but I won’t be beaten like this. My right hand is trembling, but it will do the job. With a falling twist, I reach out and grab the arm that placed the needle in me.
My left side hits the floor first, but I am not alone. The alcoholic in the starch white uniform accompanies me to the ground. His face strikes the cold ground with his forehead. He bounces off the floor like an empty bottle slipping from his hands. His hands attempt to support his body as he tries to turn toward me, but even in my fading consciousness my military training serves me well. One well-placed fist soars through the air and strikes the man on his nose; surely broken by the floor and blow. This sends crimson over the ground and the white uniform. He lays there. He is motionless; just as I will become in this constantly fluxing world I see. In my fading vision, I see all the orders I have carried out, all the brothers I lost, and all the souls I’ve sent to paradise before their time. I see my own paradise, but I have a feeling I will never see it again. It was such a beautiful place with gorgeous white sand and matching waves; all below the shining sun.
This world fades from me, and I do not dream. I stay awake within the darkest of dreams. A world of black fills my thoughtless mind, but even in the darkness my memories survive and thrive. Memories of those in the jungles and deserts, deep in the Middle East and the woods of Asia. I feel them around me—watching and waiting. I drift on in the black dream and pray with tightly shut eyes for a chance to escape it; to return to paradise. When my eyes open, they are all around me… faces of the lives that have found paradise before me; faces of the ones I have lost or ended. All done following orders.
Lifeless eyes move from days to weeks. Weeks to months. Months to years. Years to years to years to years.
They surround me but keep their distances. In the fake world of floating memories, I suffer in tormented remembrance of the life I have lived. Orders were followed, yet I bear a fake and temporary paradise while the rest of the world goes on as normal; or at least the mirage of normality. All of the faces I see are memories I wish to forget, but I will never be given such a gift within this wretched life. I fear my prayers will never be heard—or answered.
All of the memories look at me with dead eyes, but each moves their parched and drowned lips to tell me the same thing, “Wake up.” A chant has begun in my head, and through it a light at the end of the darkness can be seen. My temples begin to throb as though electricity were pulsing through my veins.
I float toward that light, and new words echo within my blackness, “He’s not worth it.”
I float toward that light, the voice of the man in starch white; one of the peons, pleads, “We can’t do this.”
I float toward that light, and the doctor’s voice is low and serious, “Turn up the voltage.”
My temples pulse with electricity and a feeling of relief. All of those memories fade from my darkness. Another jolt, and legions disperse. Attention. March. Orders to ship out.
Another shock.
Years.
Another shock.
Months.
Another shock.
Weeks.
Another.
Days.
I can see the sunset over white sands and white waves.
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