any time moving in to destroy the village. They drove battered pickup trucks up and down the muddy paths firing at anything that moved, human or animal. They looked up at the Irish soldiers on the hill and laughed, openly mocking them. A deep-burning hate arose in Lorcan. He and many of the others in his unit had helped out in the village, rebuilding the school, redistributing food and other supplies. He cared for these people.
“We have to do something!” Lorcan yelled at his captain.
“You’re bang out of order, Lieutenant Byrne.”
Above the din of the carnage unfolding below, Lorcan heard a voice. A child—a young lad he had taken quite a shine to. He was screaming and begging for assistance. “Loo-can! Help! Help, please!” Lorcan had taught Drima a few words of English and he called them out now. He couldn’t pronounce Lorcan’s name, so it came out sounding like “Loo-can.”
Lorcan gripped his Steyr AUG rifle and took two steps forward.
“Stand down, lieutenant! That’s an order!” the captain yelled.
Lorcan located the source of the frenzied pleading. Drima held out his arms toward him and Lorcan’s heart seized in his chest. A man in the back of a pickup raised his sword and struck Drima. Blood spurted up into the air in an arc, and before Drima could even hit the ground, another truck ran him over.
“Noooooo! Drima!”
Lorcan awoke. He scanned his dark bedroom, his breathing ragged as sweat poured down his face. His entire body shook as cold, clammy goosebumps rose on his skin. He inhaled and then exhaled, trying to regulate his breathing before this turned into a full-blown panic attack. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright. He let the tears come. First time he’d had this nightmare in months. He thought he had licked them, but Lorcan had the sick feeling they would never leave him. This happened over five years past, but in this moment it felt like it happened five minutes ago.
He had been told by more than one person in the medical field to seek help for these night terrors. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Aye, he had it. He had been told it was mild to moderate, as the recollections had not invaded his daytime awakened state—there’s a mercy. No, instead they haunted his nights, appearing when he least expected them. Just when he dared hoped he had licked it, they returned.
Lorcan stumbled across the hall to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t have to peer in the mirror. He knew what he would see. An empty shell of a man with a bleak, haunted look. He opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the saline nasal spray, squeezing a few shots up each nostril. Anything to get rid of the lingering, fetid smell of death.
Since he’d left the army, he’d kept people at arm’s length. It’s why he would have to tread lightly with Julie. Get to know her to a point, only let her get so close. In the long term, she deserved better than him. A broken, empty man.
He walked back into the bedroom, reached for his boxer briefs and slipped them on. He inhaled. The smell of stale blood and burnt flesh still lingered slightly. Lorcan sat on the floor facing the end of the bed and hooked his feet under the footboard. With his hands behind his head, he began the stomach crunches.
About 250 should do it.
Grunts left his throat with each upward push of his body. After fifty, sweat tricked down the valley of his back and the horrific smell finally began to dissipate, but he could still hear Drima calling for him. He moved faster.
The incident had never been officially reported, it was if the village and its occupants had never existed. No CNN or BBC news crews, no mention on the news stations anywhere in the world. But Lorcan would never forget. How could he? Drima’s death played in his head like a never-ending video loop some nights. He saw the blood and heard the crunch of small, fragile bones under the truck tires. Lorcan passed the 100 mark and
“We have to do something!” Lorcan yelled at his captain.
“You’re bang out of order, Lieutenant Byrne.”
Above the din of the carnage unfolding below, Lorcan heard a voice. A child—a young lad he had taken quite a shine to. He was screaming and begging for assistance. “Loo-can! Help! Help, please!” Lorcan had taught Drima a few words of English and he called them out now. He couldn’t pronounce Lorcan’s name, so it came out sounding like “Loo-can.”
Lorcan gripped his Steyr AUG rifle and took two steps forward.
“Stand down, lieutenant! That’s an order!” the captain yelled.
Lorcan located the source of the frenzied pleading. Drima held out his arms toward him and Lorcan’s heart seized in his chest. A man in the back of a pickup raised his sword and struck Drima. Blood spurted up into the air in an arc, and before Drima could even hit the ground, another truck ran him over.
“Noooooo! Drima!”
Lorcan awoke. He scanned his dark bedroom, his breathing ragged as sweat poured down his face. His entire body shook as cold, clammy goosebumps rose on his skin. He inhaled and then exhaled, trying to regulate his breathing before this turned into a full-blown panic attack. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright. He let the tears come. First time he’d had this nightmare in months. He thought he had licked them, but Lorcan had the sick feeling they would never leave him. This happened over five years past, but in this moment it felt like it happened five minutes ago.
He had been told by more than one person in the medical field to seek help for these night terrors. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Aye, he had it. He had been told it was mild to moderate, as the recollections had not invaded his daytime awakened state—there’s a mercy. No, instead they haunted his nights, appearing when he least expected them. Just when he dared hoped he had licked it, they returned.
Lorcan stumbled across the hall to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t have to peer in the mirror. He knew what he would see. An empty shell of a man with a bleak, haunted look. He opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the saline nasal spray, squeezing a few shots up each nostril. Anything to get rid of the lingering, fetid smell of death.
Since he’d left the army, he’d kept people at arm’s length. It’s why he would have to tread lightly with Julie. Get to know her to a point, only let her get so close. In the long term, she deserved better than him. A broken, empty man.
He walked back into the bedroom, reached for his boxer briefs and slipped them on. He inhaled. The smell of stale blood and burnt flesh still lingered slightly. Lorcan sat on the floor facing the end of the bed and hooked his feet under the footboard. With his hands behind his head, he began the stomach crunches.
About 250 should do it.
Grunts left his throat with each upward push of his body. After fifty, sweat tricked down the valley of his back and the horrific smell finally began to dissipate, but he could still hear Drima calling for him. He moved faster.
The incident had never been officially reported, it was if the village and its occupants had never existed. No CNN or BBC news crews, no mention on the news stations anywhere in the world. But Lorcan would never forget. How could he? Drima’s death played in his head like a never-ending video loop some nights. He saw the blood and heard the crunch of small, fragile bones under the truck tires. Lorcan passed the 100 mark and
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