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The Healing of Death - II
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 19 May 2006, 4:16 pm
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The Healing of Death
II
Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.
J. R. R. Tolkien
Lieutenant Simon Mardaroni brought a hand to his head, trying to shake the images that flowed through his idle mind. It was almost every day that he encountered these memories, and every time it took increasing determination to shake them. It was as if they were asserting themselves upon him, and that each day they grew in intensity and power, slowly yet surely devouring his ability to dislodge the feelings that flowed through his body.
Was this the inevitable befalling him? The rumors and stories weren't false, and he had witnessed many times the outcome of these memories. This wasn't the kind of thing you could just shake off, or endure and keep living on. This was the type of thing that consumed your thoughts until nothing remained, that devoured your will, and that demolished your ability to see the future. Nothing could live past this darkness, and despite every attempt to deny it, he could feel himself slipping into this other mindset. It was thoughts composed of despair, of resignation, of relinquishment.
Of release.
Once again the images crossed his mind, and he could not eradicate the feeling overcoming him. He suddenly didn't care, or even want to care. The anguish was thick and prevailing, and the silent, wordless uttering of this dark entity inhabiting the hills around them only aided in this feeling. Nothing was worth fighting for here, nothing was worth defending, and certainly nothing was worth living for. There was no future in this wasteland, no victory that his superiors spoke of, and unquestionably no way to leave this world. He was stuck here, and as such—in wake of this truth—why should he delay the inevitable? Why should he endure this sickness and misery?
The only way out would find him sometime in this futile future, so why try and elude this bereavement? If nothing was worth living for in the interim between life and death, why live at all? There was only vainness in his constant breathing, and only desolation in his thoughts. With all the truth and facts and persuasiveness of this situation, his only release was to end his own consciousness and to propel himself into some other land that would offer peace to his own anguish.
Memories, those memories of that tent washed over him once again. The sight of those two men on their cots, eyes wide open and the syringes sticking out of their arms flooded his vision. The emptiness in their eyes haunted him, and the cold, stiff bodies seemed to grab his thoughts. They had found their way out, and were now away from this desert wasteland infected with an enemy greater than the physical one they fought against. No alien foe was truly feared here, rather only that darkness that slowly broke men and took lives.
If he was not able to beat the more powerful of those two, then the only thing left was acquiescence of its superiority, and then submission to its demands of release. There was no other way to escape this, no other way to live on.
Mardaroni reached over and grabbed his rifle leaning against the dark brown rock, the weapon issued to him to defeat the physical enemy that slaughtered thousands of his own. Yet, in the wake and resignation of this silent darkness, he would use this tool to cave in, to stop resisting this inevitability.
The barrel twisted in his hands and slowly pointed at him. The officer closed his eyes and relaxed his neck, his head leaning forward and resting on the muzzle. His hand slowly moved down to the cold trigger of the weapon and rested upon it, his mind running off into another realm as he began remembering his past, and like those precursors who had paved the way into death, remembered what had been taken from him. His family, his love, his future, his life. And now that all those were gone, he could concede to death and find sanctity from this place, from this oppression.
Slowly, and with a distinct click, the safety was turned off, and the round snapped to semi-automatic. His index finger then rested upon the trigger, and he took in one last breath, one last substance of life before his own end.
Sir?
The word echoed indistinctly among his thoughts. The officer willed his finger to apply pressure, and as time slowed he felt the firing mechanism engage, activating the hammer in the weapon to trigger the round in the chamber. It was done, and now all he waited for in this timeless moment was the sought after death to envelope around him and take him from this life.
No.
Without realization, the muzzle pressed against his forehead slid to the side, seemingly slow yet fast enough to counter the weapon firing in his hands. His fists clenched with anticipation and his heartbeat doubled in expectation, and his mind lavished on the impending kismet to take him away.
Crack!
Suddenly, all the resignation was gone. Mardaroni's eyes shot open and he winced in pain as the rifle firing next to his head inundated his ears. All the nostalgia, all that carelessness and all the relinquishment was abruptly gone, and he now stared in utter surprise at the face before his own, still trying to figure out what was happening and what had just happened. His ears were numb, but his eyes were not blind, and he watch as soundlessly the man in front of him ripped the rifle back and out of his hands, yelling something that was wholly indiscernible amidst the ringing flooding his hearing.
What had he just tried to do? He closed his eyes tightly as he answered that question without remorse. End this despair, release from this sickness, leave this wasteland.
The soldier pointed at him, a mixture of concern and anger across his face. Mardaroni slowly and scarcely shook his head, bringing up his hands to rub his eyes. He sat still as reality returned to him, his senses and—to some degree—his sanity. He winced as his awareness returned to him, and shifted his back as the pain of the rock he was leaning against shot through his body. The officer rolled over from his position and onto his hands and knees, rising from the dry earth that had almost claimed his life.
Mardaroni stared in shock at what he had just tried to do, and brought a hand to his left ear—the one that had taken the brunt of the rifle firing next to his head—and grimaced as he touched it, sharp pain filling the side of his head. He brought his trembling hands back into view and stared silently at the red substance that was apparently running from his eardrum. As his mind went awash with thoughts—thoughts of confusion, not death—he conceded to the weak sensation in his legs and sat down upon a dark brown rock next to him, bringing both hands to his face and letting his head fall towards the grainy ground.
What was happening to him? Why was this land consuming his thoughts? Perhaps even more frightening, why did every moment of peace end of with suicidal visions? The quiet, tranquil moment that had preceded this near-death incident had quickly gone from restful to a rifle aimed at his head, with his own finger pulling the trigger. It would appear that sanity was quickly eluding his grasp at every lonesome instant, and that it was now only a matter of time before this darkness devoured the last remnant of his judgment and he found himself once again staring death in the eyes, yet by his own hand and will.
…Tell me something!
Distressed at his own actions, Mardaroni looked up slowly, wincing at the sunlight blaring down from behind the figure before him. His right ear was ringing now, which was a good thing, but his left ear only responded in pain. Though he didn't care, and shook his head slightly in aching, trying to force the tenderness to subside.
The man made hand motions at him, though they were wholly indiscernible from the sunlight flooding his vision. It was obvious, despite his lack of hearing and inability to see clearly as he looked nearly directly at the sun, that this Marine, one of his subordinates, was trying to figure out what was happening. Though he couldn't see his face, his instinct told him it was his Platoon Sergeant, one of the twenty-one survivors out of what was formerly a thirty-six man unit. The man was probably the only one who really knew him, but even thinking that was a stretch. The only thing he shared in common with the troops he led was the battles they had lost and the men who had died besides them.
…Sir? Can you hear me?
Mardaroni looked up again, slowly and deliberately, squinting at the sunshine that offered more hurt than healing, more distress than peace. He took his hand and felt the blood running from his ear once again, his face contorting from the acute paint that almost paralyzed his neck. It was time to return to reality, back to this God-forsaken life that was banished to fight among the rocks and endless dunes of sand. If he had been lucky, if he had managed to pull this off without anyone stopping him, then all this discomfort and depression could be a distant memory—or, better yet, he wouldn't have any memories.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
The sound came through his right ear only, but at least he could hear. Was he supposed to be thankful? Or consider himself lucky that the rifle that had just discharged next to his head had not actually killed him? He didn't want to appreciate life anymore, nor did he want to be grateful that he wasn't a bloody corpse without a head lost in the rocky kills of this desert.
"Lieutenant," the Platoon Sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant Jason Levett, said slowly yet firmly, leaning in closer and stopping only inches from his face. "You can't do that now, sir, you can't."
Mardaroni stopped squinting as Levett's head blocked out the sun shining on his face, seeing the hard eyes clearly and the wrinkled expression. "And why is that?" His tone was more of ignorance than malice.
"Because, sir," Levett said, standing up and away, allowing the bright sunlight to wash across the officer's face. "There are nineteen men on the other side of these rocks, and they need their commander."
"Sergeant, you could take these men the rest of the way." It was his last words of trying to rationalize his attempt at his own life.
"That may be true, but they need a leader, not a hardass sergeant who gives them shit on the top of every hour."
Mardaroni leaned back and closed his eyes, hearing footsteps approach them. He felt the responsibility of leading what was left of his platoon, of keeping those young men who were also a mired in this wasteland alive, and keeping some sense of hope within them that there may be a way out of this hell. The officer tried to shake the feeling, the duty that had been emplaced over him when he received these young Marines, but the more he thought of it, the more he couldn't deny it. He couldn't leave this life just yet, in spite of the sun, the featureless earth, and the darkness that grasped his will every time his eyes closed. He had to stay.
"What the hell happened?"
He opened his eyes to see several silhouettes darkened by the sunlight.
"Misfire, Corporal." Levett responded tersely. "Now get to the perimeter and keep an eye out."
"Yes, sergeant." The figures moved off from behind the dark brown rocks.
The Platoon Sergeant took a step closer and leaned in. "Now get your ass up, sir, and put your game face on. The last thing I need to do is clean up a bloody officer, and then explain to these boys that he just couldn't hack this shit anymore."
Mardaroni didn't appreciate his subordinate's instruction, but he knew full and well that he was no longer a Platoon Commander capable of leading men into battle. No, ever since this darkness began controlling his thoughts, and even now his actions, he had lost that ability. Nonetheless, if he didn't have that duty anymore to this unit, he did owe them enough to stay alive. Despite their discouraging and overwhelming encounters with their physical foe, they were still alive, and that was because of each other—and the sacrifices of those who no longer stood among them. He would have to fight this one out, or in one deathful motion invalidate those deceased Marines who had taken the ultimate fall for their right to life.
And that, as he believed every Marine could affirm, was unacceptable. To disgrace the lives of those who fell under the sword of battle was not an option. While he couldn't deny his urge to just leave this place, to just end this near torturous existence, the words of his Platoon Sergeant were true and justified. He couldn't do this, not now. The lives of more than just his own rested upon it.
The officer felt the slight vibration from his personal communication radio, and felt around his Load Bearing Vest to activate the device. He reached over and picked up the headset that was in the sand and slid it over his head, wincing as the small left speaker pressed against his ear.
"Tangos in sight," came the whispered voice over the radio.
He got to his feet and gazed up the rocky slope to the peak of the hill they were on. At the summit were two barely indiscernible figures—he could only make out the shapes because he knew they were there—and he followed the direction of the long object protruding from one of the figures; it was pointing to the other side of the hill, meaning the entire Platoon was easily out of sight of these new found enemy.
"Number and range?"
The Spotter looked through the high-magnification optical device, pausing for a moment. "Twenty dismounted infantry and two transport vehicles with suppressive turrets atop. Heading due south without haste, looks like a standard patrol, sir. Range is 990 meters and dropping; they're heading our direction but will only pass within half a kilometer of out location."
Mardaroni stood up, looking around slowly for his helmet and gear. Slowly and surely the memories crept back into his mind, and he vividly recalled wandering back here away from his men, his will already set on death and the end to this suffering. He had dropped all his gear, save for the LBV around his body and the instrument that would end this life, and the officer had found a suitable place to complete the deed.
He looked over to the rock nearby where he had sat down, and stared emptily at it, his eyes glazing over and his consciousness pausing. For all odds and reasons, he shouldn't be alive right now. Rather, his head should have been in a sticky, acrimonious state splattered against that brown rock, and his awareness should have been no more. Yet now, under the scorching sun on the side of this rocky hill rising above the rough valleys below, with nothing in sight but more hills like this one and a distant horizon, he was still alive.
Had this been within his first week of arriving on this earth, he may have considered the sight interesting, if not beautiful. Though now, eighteen weeks later, having subsisted amongst these rocks and sand dunes with a physical enemy roaming the same expanse, things had changed. His outlook on life had changed, his viewpoint on their situation in this wasteland had changed, and his perspective on this entire war had changed. To him, this was no longer a righteous cause, nor was it an effective one. Rather, all this was simply conscripting for futility, and he found no more motivation in this cause—and even worse, no motivation in life.
Levett handed over the rifle roughly as the Lieutenant grasped it, taking the sling and flinging it around his body. Mardaroni then walked over to his rucksack, picking up the sixty pounds of gear and throwing it over his head while placing the straps quickly over his shoulders. He flexed his shoulders and quickly got accustomed to the weight he had been carrying around for the last five days, and pulled his rifle out in front, clutching the grip and turning back to his subordinate. Before speaking, Mardaroni pulled out the black-tinted sunglasses and placed them over his eyes, dimming out the blinding star that this world was orbiting around.
The Sergeant looked at his CO for a second, then forced one side of his mouth pull up in a grin, though it was apparent that the Sergeant was still skeptical of the man now contemplating his own will of life. "When this is over, I'll shoot you myself, but for now we've got work to do."
The words hit home with the Lieutenant, but his expression remained unchanged. Obviously, this man had little confidence in him now, but for the soldiers waiting for their orders, he was willing to let him make the calls. He tightened the strap on his helmet. "Get our men geared up."
Levett nodded and moved past him, his dull grin disappearing and his eyes scanning him, climbing over the rocks to get to the small gathering of the rest of the platoon. Mardaroni paused in thought and stared once again at the spot of his attempted suicide. Not yet, not now. There was no doubt in his mind that he would never leave the surface of this world, but he could firmly attest that his death would not be on this mountain side. The time would come for his release, but until then he would have to fight. Not for this war or for the propaganda poisoning humanity, but for the rest of his troops still grasping some splinter of hope.
In the end, none of this would really matter, but before the inevitable befell him, all of his actions would count. They would count to save his men, and offer some faith that their end was not destined to be in this desert, unlike his own. And in supplement to this, Mardaroni remembered the one thing his own CO had composed over ten weeks ago, written on a small piece of paper balled up in his hands as they found him, dead in his tent from a single round to the forehead, the pistol in his other hand. He vividly remembered the bloody scene and reading the paper, not understanding why his CO had decidedly left this world but believing in full his final words.
Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.
Then, eight weeks later, the note left by two soldiers in their tent after their own self-demise. The words etched upon that paper stayed with him, and were reinforced as he and his platoon traversed this wasteland on foot for five days. In a conflicting and twisted thought, he found himself believing both ancient passages, one that kept him alive in the moment and one that killed him in the future.
Over the inevitable
I should not grieve.
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