literature

Soldier!AmericaxReader - Brave Soldier Boy

Deviation Actions

Published: Feb 20, 2014

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Literature Text

As the sun slowly disappeared below the horizon, it left a thick trail of pink and gold behind. The two colors mixed together in an odd manner, one that _____ had decided looked like the sun had simply vomited across the sky. When she said this, Alfred laughed, and she laughed as well.

Then she stopped, and looked at him. There was something different about his laugh; it was softer, more reserved. His eyes narrowed to small slits, his lips curled slightly upward, and his brows furrowed apologetically, as if he was reluctant to convey the emotion.

The pair sat side by side on the green grass, waiting for the dusky sky to be illuminated. _____ picked a few blades of grass off her tie-dye shirt and denim shorts, then slipped off her khaki Bobs and set them down on her left. She looked at Alfred on her right, who was leaning back on his hands with his legs stretched out in front of him. He was clad in his olive fatigues and matching boots, his last name sewn on a patch on his shirt. His cerulean eyes moved every now and again as he quietly analyzed the darkening landscape, slowly taking in the familiar colors and structures.

_____ knew there was something wrong; Alfred was far more serious now. He contemplated everything, he didn’t speak unless it was necessary, and the sarcastic and goofy part of him seemed to have vanished. Slowly, she scooted closer to him, leaning on his frame. He blinked, then looked down at her. A small smile tugged at his lips, but that was all. No question. No physical reciprocation. Not even so much as a hello. He simply smiled a bit and turned back to the sunset.

_____ couldn’t take it anymore. She knew something was up. Was it because of his tour? He had returned from deployment in Afghanistan the day before, and _____ had noticed then that there was something different. She swallowed hard, calming her nerves and muttering, “Alfred?”

Alfred looked back down at her, an uncharacteristic patience about his features. “Hm?” he replied, not even opening his mouth.

_____ opened her mouth to say more, but nothing came out. She examined the man beside her, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, seeing that his eyes were relaxed and calculating. He wasn’t the man she had said goodbye to at the airport eight months ago. That man was cheerful, candid, and had the energy and mindset of a five-year-old.

Furrowing her brows, she leaned her face closer to him and said, “Are––Are you okay?”

He blinked, but immediately answered, “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

“Did you. . .Did anything happen? I mean––you’re acting kind of different.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Sorry. I’m just. . .a little distracted, I guess. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s okay.” _____ glanced at her watch and said, “It’s almost time for the fireworks, Al. One minute.”

Alfred chuckled and tilted his head back to look at the darkened sky. A few stars began appearing, sparkling gently in the giant sheet of indigo. There were crowds of people near the bottom of the hill, and _____ watched them from the top as they sat down on their picnic blankets. She noticed a cart past the crowds, a man standing beside it and preparing the multiple fireworks. He shouted something to the crowd that the pair couldn’t understand, and he quickly lit a fuse on a particularly large firework.

The firework, a bottle rocket, shot quickly through the air, letting out a high-pitched whistle as it pierced the sky and exploded a few seconds later. The people below ooh’ed and aah’ed and clapped at the brilliant colors that fell gracefully back to the earth. _____ smiled and watched the dissolving firework––until she felt Alfred stiffen beside her. She turned her head to look at him. His eyes were wide, staring at the grass at his feet, and he had suddenly slumped over.

“Alfred?” said _____. “Are you okay––”

Three more fireworks were fired upward, and exploded in loud pops. Alfred gasped and curled up into a balled, covering his ears with his hands. His eyes tightly shut, he whimpered, “God, make it stop!”

“Alfred!” _____ shifted in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Alfred, snap out of it. What’s wrong?”

“Make it stop!” he repeated as two more fireworks were released. “Make it go away, please!”

_____ froze when it dawned on her. “That’s why you. . .” Her voice trailed off, and she pursed her lips in thought, unsure of what to do.

Slowly, she slid one hand onto the back of his head and the other on his shoulder blade. She pulled him toward her gently, holding him in her small frame. Hot tears pricked her eyes as Alfred shrunk into her at the sound of the fireworks. He shook violently, like a child woken from a nightmare, and she did her best to act the part of a consoling mother. She sniffled in an attempt to hold back her tears, and without much hesitation, she began quietly singing.

“Leaves from the vine,
Falling so slow,
Like fragile, tiny shells,
Drifting in the foam.
Little soldier boy,
Come marching home,
Brave soldier boy,
Come marching home.”

“A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil.”
––Tim O’Brien