Once I Was A Soldier

PrologueA Thursday in late November 1994 I'm in a cage, but it's not a cage that you or anyone else would recognise. The door, beside which I sit, is not locked and nor do the two windows have bars; nonetheless escape is impossible. Escape will always be impossible for me. The room is spacious, painted a motley cream with its workaday appearance intensified by the featureless hard wooden settles fixed to three walls and the unrelated magazines scattered untidily along their lengths. There is a policewoman sitting opposite me who every now and again looks up from her chosen reading material and stares as though I'm an oddity in an exhibition. I stare back. It's all I can do, other than think. I'm thinking now! I'm not reading. My nurse is reading. She's calm enough to, whereas I'm not. I'm not sitting on those benches but in a soft chair of my own. I have no choice where to sit. There are no chains attached to me and although I find every movement a debilitating strain I want to jump through one of those closed windows and run freely, as fast and as far as I can from what awaits me on the other side of that ugly, brown painted door. The door creaked opened once and a young woman wearing a pink-striped pinafore offered tea. I refused that offer. Now, I'm beginning to regret that. My throat is dry, but apart from my answering a cursory 'are you okay, dear?' from the nameless policewoman and an 'are we all right regarding the toilet?' from my nurse, we have not spoken a single word to each other in the hour we have sat together. Some of the glances they throw in my direction appear pitying, whilst in others I'm sure I've detected elements of fear. I guess I must look a little frightening with my face still slightly bruised and my head as bald as a baby's backside. I wanted to wear a wig but I was told it would not be 'desirable' in the circumstances. The circumstances of what exactly? I asked. My question was never answered. Not many that I've asked in the last two weeks have been, particularly the ones I asked of those voices in my head. They are loud and incessant. I am trying to ignore them, but I can't. If I could identify where in my head they're hiding, then perhaps I'd stand a chance. There are too many shadowy corners up there to search. They sedate me, not the voices, no, they try their best to keep me awake. No, it's the nurses that sedate me. There are noises in the corridor beyond the door, not distinct, just noises. It's only noises that I must cling on to in trying to make sense of what happened. I don't want to be here. Soon I will be called for by name and asked to give account of what brings me to this place. What name shall I give? Should I say—I'm Melissa Iverson, a figure of fun or, I'm Melissa Iverson, an object of pity? Would it be more correct to say—I'm Private Iverson and once I was a soldier, but never was I brave! There is no morality to be found in evil. But to recognise that which is truly evil one must forget the rules of morality. D. Kemp Part One By The Wayside I am the winter's cold. I am the stars at night. Earthly stones overshadow me and I thirst for light. I struggle to survive and I'm too weak for the fight. My growth is so stunted that I'll not stretch in height. Part Two Stones There's no depth to my feelings. I'm shallow and vain. I'll flourish until there is no more to gain. My resolve grows weaker as I feel it drain, As people shun me, no longer pitying my shame. Part Three Thorny Ground I'm swamped by others who crowd me out. My voice is too feeble, no one hears me shout. Life is all around me, but I'm suffering from drought. I want to be noticed, but I'm racked by doubt. Part Four Fertility I am the blue sky of summer. I am the moon that shines. I light the path to the table on which one dines. I'm as mighty as a stallion and I'm as strong as a vine. If you help me ripen then I'll become your wine. Part One: By The Wayside