TITLE: An American Soldier Bids Farewell

STORY: The soldier stood in the dim light of the room, the air thick with the kind of silence that suffocates, not so much because of what has been said, but because of what cannot be. His pack was heavy on his back, pulling him down like the weight of the war he was walking toward, while the flag in his hand felt like a hollow symbol, almost mocking in its brightness. He kissed his son, the boy tense and confused, his small face holding the question he dared not ask: why does he have to go? His wife stood beside him, her hand resting on the child as if to anchor them all. Her face was pale but firm, though her eyes betrayed the storm raging behind them. She had said nothing to try to stop him; she knew better. The war swallows all protests. It does not care for love or family or the fragile lives left behind. What could she say that hadn’t already been buried beneath the sound of marching boots and the endless talk of duty? He looked at her one last time, trying to memorize her face, though he knew that memories are unreliable—they fade, they betray, they turn into ghosts. The girl clung to him, her small hands gripping his coat, her tears staining his sleeve. She didn’t know what war was, but she knew what loss felt like, even if she couldn’t name it. He wanted to kneel and hold her, to tell her the truth about what lay ahead—that he didn’t know if he would come back, that the war didn’t care about fathers or promises—but he didn’t. She was too young for that kind of honesty. Instead, he murmured words of comfort he didn’t believe, empty phrases meant to quiet the ache in both their hearts. The rifle at his side was a strange intruder in this scene of domestic sorrow. It gleamed in the faint light, cold and unfeeling, a tool meant to end lives. He hated it, and yet it was now as much a part of him as his own skin. As he turned toward the door, he felt the pull of the house behind him—the warmth of the hearth, the familiar smell of home, the presence of the people who made his life worth living. But the pull of the war was stronger, relentless, like a tide that drags everything out to sea. And so he walked away, the sound of his boots heavy on the wooden floor, leaving behind the only world he truly cared about.

LOCATION: Blake - QLD, Australia

CLUBHOUSE: Blake

AGE: 31 - 40

VOTES: 155

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