A Soldier, Left Behind - Tales From The Backwoods, Story #4

by Backwoods

Chapter Four

  Two Months Later…

  Tommy stared at the ceiling in the small basement at his parents’ home. Two hours in bed trying to fall asleep, only to fall asleep and be awakened a half-hour later by horrid dreams of Johnny’s death and the battle. Such nights had become regularity and Tommy lied, suffering thoughts of guilt and anger, bitter about being the one to survive.

  Life would never be the same without Johnny around. His stupid jokes, most of which were better suited for a six-year old, would surely be missed. He would no longer show up to rummage through the snacks and leave, or to drag Tommy off to a party when he was pouting over a girl blowing him off. There would be no more crazy plans for explosive ordinances, or construction plans for a catapult. Johnny and the wild times he provided were no more. The emptiness always seemed to fill him with the lasting image of a brain, pulverized and pulpy, collected within in his helmet.

  As Tommy sat up, a sting ran through his shoulder. He often irritated the wounds with old habits and reflexes. Pushing himself into an upright position too, apparently, presented a painful error. He had discovered many things that he would not again take for granted. Brushing his teeth and wiping his ass were interesting events the first few times with his left hand.

  He turned and slid his feet over the side of the bed and leaned forward, letting his arm dangle, then slightly rocking it left and right, back and forth, and to and from until it loosened up enough to move around without it sending shocks of pain as it creaked and crunched with the slightest shift in direction or angle. Once he had it loosened up, he stood and walked to his desk, opened the drawer, and retrieved the 9mm pistol from inside.

  He reached over to a small shelf under the roll-top hood of the desk, grabbed a box of ammo, and placed it alongside the 9mm on the desktop. He sat at the desk and studied it for a while. Eventually, he depressed the small button on the side of the grip, ejecting the magazine and opened the box of bullets. As he placed a bullet in the magazine and held it in his hand, pondering life, it’s meaning, and the ease of its peril. As he began to slide it into the pistol, he spotted an inscription etched into the side. He set the pistol down and raised the magazine for a closer look, focusing on the small writing.

  It read…

  Edward

  May this keep you safe on your journey

  Tommy read it over and over, then walked over to his computer. He sat down and typed ‘Edward Donnelly’. He scrolled through pointless articles and pop-up ads for several minutes until he found an article from a small newspaper in Alabama.

  A large picture of a car that had flipped over, and was smashed badly, headlined the article. He skimmed it over, reading of an Edward Donnelly that had been driving and had to be cut from within by the Jaws of Life by the firefighters and had been pronounced dead at the scene. He scrolled down further, revealing a high school picture.

  Tommy’s nerves tingled as he looked at the familiar face in the picture. He was older than the kid in the picture, but it was him, yet Donnelly had died in a crash eight years earlier, according to the date on the website.

  He considered that a ghost had saved him. Complete nonsense, he thought. However, it was him, and he was there. He had to have been. Maybe he was simply going crazy. He did find thoughts of a safe, padded room slightly soothing.

  He scrolled further down the article, skimming intently. His jaw dropped as he read.

  Mr. Donnelly was resuscitated nearly a half an hour after the crash. He continues to rehab and recover from his injuries and now resides with his wife and son in Eufaula, Alabama.

  He pulled up another window and search for driving directions from Akron, Ohio to Eufaula, Alabama. Once it pulled up, he pressed the print key and continued to search for ‘Edward Donnelly’. This time, however, with the addition of ‘Eufaula, Alabama’. The search pulled up a phone book listing…and an address.

  Tommy smacked the print button several times and began to load his duffel. He was eight hundred fifty miles and fourteen hours from finding an answer. He felt some relief that he was not seeing ghosts or going crazy, but the reality was that a wife and son no longer had a husband and daddy. Tommy would have to explain his death, and his bravery.