Soldier Parts 1&2 (1 Viewer)

Eh fuck it. It's late and I just dug up this short story I wrote a long time ago. It's STORY-TIME!

Part 1

I was on a late night patrol, but my heart was heavy. My flak jacket and gear felt like the world on my shoulders and the gun in my hands felt like it was solid lead. All was quiet around me and the sound of my boots softly hitting the ground echoed through the night. Somewhere far from here I knew the people who loved me were thinking of me, dreaming, as they lay in their beds. So much they didn't know... and if they'd seen the things my squadron and I had done... if they knew what I had done...

Signed up fresh out of school. Jobs were hard to come by in my small town. And being the daughter of a farmer who had to sell his farm just to keep food on our table wasn't doing me any good. I wanted to do something to change the world, make it a better place. And joining the army seemed like something I could do. I was strong; my mother had made sure of that every night when she beat me as a child. My brothers had turned into bitter people, I don't blame them. But I couldn't let life slip me by without doing anything like they do.

Life at home was hard at best so I spent most of my time walking the streets. I'd seen more than a little girl ever should by the time I was thirteen. One night after my mother had passed out in a drunken stupor, my brother came to my room. He had a fresh black eye and there was still some dried blood beneath his nose. I had tried to console him, wrapping him up tight in my arms, stroking his hair as he cried. He felt like a marble statue and didn't lean in to my embrace or move at all aside from the shaking of his body as he sobbed. I looked up at him, to his eyes, and he looked different. There was hate in his eyes like I had never seen. And before I knew what was happening he had thrown me to my bed and was stripping me angrily. I pleaded with him at first but he just slapped me, hard, leaving his handprint across my face.

She had broken him and he didn't even see me as his sister, as family, he just saw me as a girl, a woman, he saw me as if I were the one who had just finished beating him and the hate was burning in the air white hot in the soft fluorescent light of my room. He started to take his shirt off and I was about to run for it when I saw my daddy's gun in the waist of his jeans. I froze with fear, my body was dead weight and I couldn't feel my appendages. Just the fear that thudded sullenly in my heart and drowned my thoughts. The fear was broken as he started to rape me. He wasn't gentle, but then again, rape never is. I was just a little girl and had always envisioned my first to be something wonderful like they show on the TV. With beautiful boys and girls who love each other, moving in slow motion, bodies pressed close. The only light in the room, romantic candles, maybe some soft music playing in the background. The kisses, long and soft but passionate.

That was never going to be mine and all my childhood dreams died as his cock filled me. I didn't feel the pain so much, not in my pussy at least. I felt it in my heart and my head. I knew I was bleeding and was thankful of it because at least it was making the ride a little smoother as he plunged inside me, again, and again. His eyes were full of rage and hate and spittle flew from his clenched teeth as he breathed hard and low in his throat. I never looked away from his face and he slapped me again for it. But defiantly I looked back at him, hoping against hope that maybe he would see the little girl he grew up with and realize what he was doing to her.

He lay atop me for a moment, the breath ragged in his chest. I couldn't move or push him away, he had always been bigger than me, and now, he felt like a ton of bricks as he smothered me. I started crying and he rose with angry intent. I was sure he was going to hit me again and I locked eyes with him for a moment and asked silently with a sob. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Something clicked within him and I could see it in his posture. The rage had passed and he was beginning to see what he had done. He jumped back, his cock slipping out of me and I felt the thick semen oozing out of my sore crevice. He held his head in his hands, shaking it over and over again, cursing himself and begging for forgiveness. I crawled away from him, further up on my bed, grabbing my pillow and clasping it to my chest, covering myself with it. He knelt onto my bed after me, saying he was sorry, so sorry and I flinched, trying to get away from him but I knew he still had the gun, he had never taken his pants off, just unzipped them. He took my face in his hands and made me look him in the eye as he apologized, I stared back, cold on the inside. He was still my brother... he may have just raped me and stolen a part of my future but it is animal instinct to love one of your own. I couldn't hate him, but I hated myself a little as I gently put my arms around him.

"It'll be ok... It'll be ok..." I just kept muttering to him, rocking slightly with him in my arms as he kissed my cheeks again and again, still apologizing. Suddenly he withdrew, the tears flowing silently from his eyes and his mouth hung open. His eyes were glancing round the room in frantic little motions. He put his to his waist, grasping the gun and withdrawing it from his jeans. Fear lurched in my belly once more as I feared he would end my life. He just held the gun in front of himself, pointing towards the floor. My fists clenched around my pillow and I gritted my teeth, saying silent prayers in my head as I waited for him to shoot me.

He looked into my eyes once more, now raising the gun towards me. I couldn't even flinch I was so scared. He inhaled hard once and said so softly, "I'm sorry..." and with that I was sure I was dead. But instead he turned the gun on himself and when I saw him but the barrel in his mouth I leapt for him. My shout of, no, was silenced by the blast of the gun, the splatter of the wall behind him, and then the thud of his body as it fell backwards against the wall and slumped to the floor. I fell to my knees beside him, clutching at his chest and begging god to make it not so. My father, awoken by the gun came running into the room. I'll always wonder exactly what ran through his head first when he saw his children that night, one son, brains still dripping down the wall slowly bare chested with his cock exposed. His only daughter, naked screaming her head off and beating the chest of his dead sun, blood and semen still dripping down her thighs and from her bed spread. Did my father think I had shot my brother for raping me? Did he think it was consensual until my brother came to his true wits and killed himself for being an incestuous little shit? What was he supposed to think.

He faltered for a moment before dropping to his knees, seeing the gun still in my brother’s hand I guess he knew I didn't do it. He checked to see if my brother was breathing, and of course he wasn't. Then he started crying, silently. He stood, reaching for me quietly. He had to drag me from the body and even when his strong arms had lifted me free of the floor I still kicked and tried to get free, but I couldn't struggle so much seeing as the pain had set in and it felt like my inside were on fire and the slurry of blood and semen leaking from me was burning oil. My body gave up and I lay lifeless in my father’s arms, exhausted I didn't even care that I was naked. He carried me to the bathroom, gingerly setting me on the toilet as he started the bath water running.

I just sat there shivering and staring at the floor as my father left the room. I could hear him dialing 911 and then I heard my younger brother come running from his bedroom down the hall. He almost fell as he stopped at the bathroom, as the door was still open and the light was on. I glanced over at him and whispered to him. "Don't go in my room..." He was white as a ghost as he stared at me, but in mere moments his face turned beet red as he blushed at my nakedness. He averted his eyes and slowly turned to continue down the hall. I was about to follow him and stop him from walking by my bedroom but I heard my father catch him before he got far past the bathroom. I heard him telling the boy to stay right where he was, and the pleas of the young one, wanting to know what was happening, a thousand questions at once. My father yelled, the only time I ever had heard him yell. The boy stopped speaking and then I heard my father take several steps and close my bedroom door.

I stood, carefully, nearly falling as the pain shot through my hips and up through my body but I caught myself on the door jam and peered around it. I saw my father taking my younger brother's hand in his and leading him down through the hallway to the living room where my mother was passed out on the couch. She hadn't even woken at the sound of the gunshot. I watched him instruct the child to try and wake his mother and wait there in the room because the police were coming to the house and he needed him to let them in and call for him when they got there. The boy frightened into obedience nodded and my father came back to the bathroom where I was waiting.

He glanced into my eyes and I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before. Fear, and pain, and the need for answers but he knew he would have to wait to get them. The tub was nearly full and he shut the water off, testing it before picking me up and laying me gently into the tub. I didn't mean to scream but when the hot water touched my poor ravaged sex it hurt more than when my brother had raped me. My scream caused my father to choke off a sob in his throat and my younger brother shouted from the living room, asking if I was ok. My father forcefully shouted back at him to wake up his mother and wait for the police. I sobbed, shaking violently in the tub. My father reached out and pulled my face to his chest, stroking my hair and holding me gently but so firmly. I didn't fight, it felt so strange to be close to a man after what had just happened but I was exhausted and just lay against him, sobbing.

My father washed me like he had when I was just a toddler. This time he seemed a little stiff and I jumped slightly at first when the washcloth brushed against my mound. He just choked another sob in his throat and kept my head held to his chest as he gingerly washed the blood and semen from me. He was gentle, like a man should be when touching a woman, and I felt strange in my stomach as he touched me there. Everything was so confusing and happening so fast, I just couldn't handle it. And slowly, I faded into unconsciousness.

Part 2

That was the night that changed everything. My father could never forgive himself for leaving the gun unlocked in the house. My mother didn't seem to care at all, and she just kept drinking. My only remaining brother stopped talking. He had seen our older brother's body being carried out of the house by the paramedics. He was too young to come to terms with what had happened that night. I couldn't blame him... but I had to be strong for him, and in time, he began speaking again. But only to me and only in a soft voice that I hardly recognized as his own. And of course, my own life was changed forever. How could it have happened like that? It felt like a nightmare that I was constantly waking up from and having to pretend it didn't happen, that it was just a figment of my imagination.

I was no longer comfortable in my skin. Even when my mother was beating me before that night, I still felt comfortable with myself because I knew she was just a foolish drunk piece of trash. But now, it was like I was wearing a sweater that was full of tacks that were always scratching at me, just at the surface. And when I would sit or remain motionless, they would dig into me and I'd have to move. I just couldn't relax, and always had to keep moving. As I grew older I knew I would do most anything to get out of this place, this little piece of hell that was my home.
As soon as I graduated high school and was of age I signed up for the army. It seemed like a good thing for so many reasons. They show army personnel doing great and wondrous things for people around the world on the TV. Like some GI Joe fantasy world where the lines are clearly drawn of who and what is a bad guy, and who the good guy really is. But quickly I learned that this was rarely, if ever, the truth.

Boot camp was hard, but it's supposed to be, so I just strived to do my best, still picturing that governmental utopia that was always portrayed in brochures. Be all that you can be, do something amazing, all that bullshit. I did get some harassment being a small woman, but I fought through it, I was used to abuse. I wrote home to my father whenever I had a chance, always enclosing a special letter just for my youngest brother. I didn't get much in the way of replies but whenever I did I always cherished it and I had saved every one of the letters from home in my footlocker at the end of my bunk.

After I graduated from boot camp I continued to serve, working my way up slowly but surely. Bad timing, for the twin towers fell a year or so after I left boot camp and was a full-fledged soldier. Before I knew what was going to happen, I was on a transport with the rest of my squad to some nowhere area in the middle of Iraq. Kind of reminded me of home when we got there. Desolate, buildings crumbling on the sides of what were once main roads and highways. Every now and again, bodies by the sides of the same roads that children would be walking on, playing simple games with whatever 'we' - the US; decided was safe for them to carry. With all the coverage on the news back home you would think it was constant action, our beloved heroes were far from home, saving refugees and destroying the infidels. Maybe I have that backwards, or at least, the media does. We were creating refugees, making people flee their homes, and we were the invaders or infidels. Drumming up support for the troops was like adding bullets to the political firearms that we were all forced to carry to be fired at the people who we deemed the enemy.

Now, I'm not saying that wrongs weren't brought to our country, and as well, not negating the fact of the multitudes of deaths from the attacks, and the aftermath that encased new york, no, our entire country. Not only were there the direct casualties of the towers, but also those that lost their lives trying to clean up that damned mess, the Americans who were driven mad by these uncertain times and took their own lives. The riots and demonstrations that brought about pain, injuries, emotional strife, hell even death. We as a country always wanted to point the blame on someone else, but I personally don't believe that we were 'attacked' for no particular reason, aside from our views and religion. We had to have done something. My brief delving into the politics of this war was plagued by fact and fiction all spreading from millions of sources. Everyone had an opinion; everyone thought they had the solution to this problem. But as I mentioned before, it is rarely, if ever, that fucking simple. There were so many different things going on at once that no one, not the president, not the everyday Joe, not the fucking CIA or religious leader could EVER, I repeat, EVER decide which particular event or decision was the one that caused these rash circumstances. I didn't have a chance to really spend a lot of time with any research, and even though I was a member of this invading unit, who you would think would know all the facts about what was really going on, I was one of the many soldiers who didn't understand exactly what we were doing in someone else’s back yard per say, shooting and destroying.

Sure, we did help some people, we brought food to some of the needy and helped rebuild, some of what we had actually destroyed. Note that I say some. We couldn't help everyone, and if you thought about trying to help everyone you would just chain yourself down with anxiety and you wouldn't be able to help ANYONE. I'd seen it personally; men and women who were at one time fighting by my side were literally going crazy. The scores of soldiers that were sent home were sent in pieces, be they from wounds suffered on our battlefield, or mental wounds that disabled them almost as much as a missing limb. I don't know how I survived this far but I couldn't decide whether I was happy about that or not, if I should pray for safety or pray to be wounded and slightly so I could go home and never have to carry a gun again.

Maybe that was unpatriotic, or cowardly of me. But I'd like to see you out here, seeing people DIE every day, knowing the times when we weren't out KILLING people (guilty or not) we would spend all our time, patrolling and waiting. Goddamn this waiting, there is no real way to describe it. It's like... fuck... trying to spend a 12 hour shift standing in front of loaded guns that could go off at any time, and scores of people would walk by them, giving you these looks of... of... disgust. All of them knowing that they could kill you with a simple pull of a trigger, so some would grasp the weapons and raise them so you were in their sights, head shot. And they would just stare you down through the scope. One wrong move and you would be dead. But your commanding officer was under orders from his leader's leader to tell you to keep moving, maggot.

Not my idea of a good time. But still here I am, with my team, a young man and another young woman, as well as one I suppose, more veteran male officer. They were chatting quietly amongst themselves as I tried to be invisible in the middle of the group. The younger man passed me a cigarette and I was about to brush him off, but something in my gut told me I needed something to take the edge off so I thanked him and lit up. I had quit smoking before I enlisted. Bad choice. After boot camp, almost every soldier was lighting up, for obvious reasons. We were all tense, and those who weren't tense, were too stupid to realize how claustrophobic this fucking part of the world was.

So I took a long slow drag from the cigarette, ignoring the foul taste of the cheap tobacco. The boredom and long hours were getting to me. My mind had been going in weird places, who am I to question any of the decisions of the government. Who am I to debate the religious clash. Who am I to point fingers and distribute blame. I'm just one of the nameless masses wearing camo and gear carrying a gun in somebody else’s homeland that I knew next to nothing about. Without realizing I had been smoking so fast I was nearing the filter far too rapidly. I stopped walking for one moment to take my final drag. The embers flared up and lit up my face and that is when I saw it.

The barrel of a gun in a window just across the street. I didn't even have a chance to warn my fellow soldiers before the shot rang out in the night. I guess the spray of blood from my face and hit theirs. I fell to the ground with a thud like my brother had when he shot himself. I wasn't sure if I was still alive but I know I saw fragments of my own skull and brain dripping down into the rocks and sand. Maybe I was dead and my spirit was having a hard time getting out of my foolish camo helmet that didn't help me at all. Not that I blame them but my squad members didn't stop to see if I was dead or not, they tried to protect themselves and who wouldn't. I never really helped anyone. Never did anything fantastic with my life, never saw much of the world. All I really did was become just another example of the naiveté of the American youth. I'd be nothing more then maybe a picture and mention on the evening news. 'This young woman chose to go to war to benefit her home and the homes of those around her. She gave her life for her country and we are proud of her. May she rest in the ever faithful arms of god and be heralded as one of the many heroes who have fought our battles for us.'

All of that would be bullshit... no one would be proud of me. God wasn't going to give me any special attention. I didn't choose this. I signed up to defend my family, my home, my country. Not to murder families, leave children parentless, mother's sonless. I signed up to escape the very home and way of life I couldn't even bear myself. And now, I am nothing but one of the nameless and faceless dead that have been brought about for no reasonable explanation. I am nothing, just like my mother always made sure to tell me, especially after I had made my older brother shoot himself. Nothing, but another piece of ameri-fucking-cana.

God bless America, cause were going to need all the help we can get. God bless this confused land of ours full of pompous people and their families which they raise with their own skewed beliefs. Nobody in this world knows the truth, and nobody knows the best way to live, but dammit, were all going to kill each other trying to convince one another that we are right, and they are wrong. God bless us, one and all...

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