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She wasn't safe.
Everyone around her celebrated the end of the war, celebrated that she had lived, that she had saved them; and the fear she had seen from them towards her was gone. But she was afraid of them.
A warm breeze would blow across her exposed skin, playing with her loose, blonde hair, but yet she would shiver and pull her arms around her body. The movement of a simple shadow would cause her to jump, and the presence of any living creature filled her with unease. The crowds that were often seen around her didn't help matters at all. No matter how she turned, how she angled herself, her back was always exposed to at least one of them.
Her body would shake, at the most random of times, and a whimper would occasionally make its way out of her mouth. Wide violet eyes flickered everywhere, searching for the danger she knew had to be there.
Once, she had even drawn her broadsword, had aimed it at the dwarf who had helped to raise her. She had avoided him after that, and it seemed as if he had begun to do so as well. Maybe he was planning something behind her back. She couldn't trust him; she couldn't trust anyone.
Sometimes, she thought she saw the dead. They would be in the corner of her vision, in crowds, and in her dreams. After the first night of screams, she had silenced her room with magic, so that none could hear them, so that none could see how she tore her bed apart every night, so that none could see how her pillow was soaked with tears.
They couldn't know that she was slipping, that she was weak and vulnerable. They had driven her away the last time they had learned of this. But now that she was the last human, they would kill her, and be done with her lot.
She would smile and nod and say all of the right words, but underneath her calm demeanor was that of a caged animal. There were others, she had noticed, who acted as she tried not to, and they were met with confusion and fear and anything but understanding. She couldn't let anybody know that she was just like them, for her punishment would be worse.
Families were growing, starting anew, becoming happy and strong. But she could not look at them without seeing what she had lost, what she had done. The dead rose up worse when she was around them, and so she began to avoid families, and anyone who talked of them. When fathers spoke lovingly of their kids, she felt sick inside, and when mothers whispered with sweet tenderness to her offspring, she felt so hollow and empty. Children were no better, and she found that she could not bear their presence for very long, and had to excuse herself each time before she hurt one of them.
More and more she was slipping, and more and more she neglected her duties, to instead spend hours and hours of time in solitude. It was better there, where nobody could hurt her. But the more time she spent alone, the more she felt tormented on the inside, and the more she felt the dead were around her. The wind was their whispers, the flickering shadows their movement, the emptiness around her their home.
The more she tried to escape, the more they found her. Memories came to her, even in the waking hours and bright sunlight of the day, and they were memories of blood. Their blood and her blood and the blood of the enemy. But it was all enemy's blood. There was nobody to trust, not even herself. No, especially not herself.
She wasn't safe.
Everyone around her celebrated the end of the war, celebrated that she had lived, that she had saved them; and the fear she had seen from them towards her was gone. But she was afraid of them.
A warm breeze would blow across her exposed skin, playing with her loose, blonde hair, but yet she would shiver and pull her arms around her body. The movement of a simple shadow would cause her to jump, and the presence of any living creature filled her with unease. The crowds that were often seen around her didn't help matters at all. No matter how she turned, how she angled herself, her back was always exposed to at least one of them.
Her body would shake, at the most random of times, and a whimper would occasionally make its way out of her mouth. Wide violet eyes flickered everywhere, searching for the danger she knew had to be there.
Once, she had even drawn her broadsword, had aimed it at the dwarf who had helped to raise her. She had avoided him after that, and it seemed as if he had begun to do so as well. Maybe he was planning something behind her back. She couldn't trust him; she couldn't trust anyone.
Sometimes, she thought she saw the dead. They would be in the corner of her vision, in crowds, and in her dreams. After the first night of screams, she had silenced her room with magic, so that none could hear them, so that none could see how she tore her bed apart every night, so that none could see how her pillow was soaked with tears.
They couldn't know that she was slipping, that she was weak and vulnerable. They had driven her away the last time they had learned of this. But now that she was the last human, they would kill her, and be done with her lot.
She would smile and nod and say all of the right words, but underneath her calm demeanor was that of a caged animal. There were others, she had noticed, who acted as she tried not to, and they were met with confusion and fear and anything but understanding. She couldn't let anybody know that she was just like them, for her punishment would be worse.
Families were growing, starting anew, becoming happy and strong. But she could not look at them without seeing what she had lost, what she had done. The dead rose up worse when she was around them, and so she began to avoid families, and anyone who talked of them. When fathers spoke lovingly of their kids, she felt sick inside, and when mothers whispered with sweet tenderness to her offspring, she felt so hollow and empty. Children were no better, and she found that she could not bear their presence for very long, and had to excuse herself each time before she hurt one of them.
More and more she was slipping, and more and more she neglected her duties, to instead spend hours and hours of time in solitude. It was better there, where nobody could hurt her. But the more time she spent alone, the more she felt tormented on the inside, and the more she felt the dead were around her. The wind was their whispers, the flickering shadows their movement, the emptiness around her their home.
The more she tried to escape, the more they found her. Memories came to her, even in the waking hours and bright sunlight of the day, and they were memories of blood. Their blood and her blood and the blood of the enemy. But it was all enemy's blood. There was nobody to trust, not even herself. No, especially not herself.
She wasn't safe.
I watched a video on Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder for one of my college classes, and this video focused on a platoon of soldiers who had been over in Iraq, and how their experiences there had messed up their lives, when their PTSD went untreated. I've known about PTSD, but I didn't really know it, not until I watched what had happened to these soldiers' lives, and what they were going through because of it.
As I thought about the video and what I had learned, I started to realize that my character Casey would have PTSD, in her late teens, in a place where nobody knows what that is. And thus this piece was born.
The title comes from Get Out Alive by Three Days Grace, as I was listening to that while writing this.
Other Casey pieces:
As I thought about the video and what I had learned, I started to realize that my character Casey would have PTSD, in her late teens, in a place where nobody knows what that is. And thus this piece was born.
The title comes from Get Out Alive by Three Days Grace, as I was listening to that while writing this.
Other Casey pieces:
Theme 8 - Gateway “You stand at the end of the road. You stand at the gateway which takes you beyond your mortal life. Past the gateway, green is seen, but there is little known of this place. Come, join us… take a step into the light.”
- ciaraan (from dA)
She gasped and clutched at her chest with trembling hands. Fire raced through her airway, originating from her lungs. Tears formed in her eyes and dripped down her face, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was for this pain to stop.
The world around her was dimming, becoming less and less important, less and less defined. All she could see was a pile of darkness directly in fron
Strong He was upstairs when he heard the crash. In an instant he was forcing his worn body through the house, hoping, praying that nothing had happened. His brown eyes strained in the direction of the kitchen, as if his fright could give him the ability to see through walls. He stumbled down the stairs, pausing for only a second to regain his breath before rushing towards the kitchen, his heart heavy.
"Casey?"
He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and his dimming eyes widened in alarm. "Casey!" he cried out and his expression twisted into that of anguish. He rushed to her side and slowly dropped down to his knees. Gently, he placed a withe
A Little Bit of Right "Nothing new since you left twenty minutes ago. I'm sorry."
The voice played like a message recording, and without a word Will snapped the phone shut. He kicked the door open with his foot as he shifted his papers and briefcase around, and then he stepped inside the house. Immediately the tired cop was bombarded by his six-year-old son. The young, brown-haired child wrapped his arms tightly around his father's legs and then looked up with his matching brown eyes, which were filled with uncertainty and with questions. Will looked down at the child, and it was almost as if he was looking into a mirror of the past. Only, his life had been eas
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Comments9
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Wow....this is very, very well-written. Nice characterization, and really, really good description of PTSD.