Dead in June 07: Sample from The Eyes of the Dead

Private Wilson breathed in, choking as he did. He rolled over onto his back. Watery-brown muck ran from his mouth. He sat up and spat the rest of it out. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, he looked around.

It stretched away from him in all directions.

A wasteland, gouged through with abandoned trench-works. His uniform was soaked. The colour no longer discernible through its thick coating of filth. Icy bullets of rain fell, striking his face. Shivering, he clambered to his feet, sinking into the soft ground. He heaved his way through the mud.  The going was slow.

He didn't know where he was going.

He knew he had to keep moving.

As he slogged on, he felt his head aching. Then throbbing. Scalding force was gathering behind his eyes. Bringing tears. Sending lines of fire racing through his brain. He could feel movement inside his skull. The pain was a restless animal, scratching away the inside of its bone prison. Its furious cacophony clouding his mind, making his eyes water. The scratching was cutting deep too. It was working its way into the matter of his mind, re-opening scars. Wilson could feel the memories bleeding out.

With a cry, he fell to his knees, suddenly remembering everything.

© G.R. Yeates 2011

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