The Adventures Of John B : The Sacred Stone

Chapter 44 - This Isn't Me, Unless I'm With You.

TOMMIE: 

"Where did we leave off?"

Once again, the interviewer looked at the young man with keen eyes.  His words were blunt and concise.  There was no time to be wasted.

"..Gunfire." Tommie whispered, staring distantly into the space in front of him.

"Right."

There was an awkward pause.  The abundance of these moments during the tense exchange prevented any chance of a carefree atmosphere.

"Well..?"

Tommie's head quickly bolted up, as if his skull had been set back into place and mind turned on- gears shifting slowly as they searched a vast field of memories. 

"Oh.  Yeah.  The first shot.."

The silence returned, cold and unwelcoming. 

"If you don't want to-"

Tommie quickly interrupted with a sharp tone.

"A random person fired.  There was massacre.  The end."

The interviewer tightened the grip on his pen, scribbling another piece of information down on his large, empty notepad. 

"..No more details?"

Tommie paused.

"..I don't know.  It's easier to forget."

The interviewer stared once more, evidently irritated as he swiped aggressively at his piece of paper.

"I get it.  But for this story to work, we need your input."

"Input?"

There was a hesitant nod.  The man with the notepad was as concerned as he was peeved, and both stopped him from feeling too much of the other emotion.  Sympathy and frustration were not the most compatible sentiments.

"I'm sorry."

Confusion clouded the eyes as a slight tilt of the head occurred.

"Why?"

A roaming sigh escaped from the boy's lips.

"Because it hurts too much to remember."

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they say that people subconsciously block out traumatic events.

if there's a way to, i'd sure like to know.

because clearly whoever said that hasn't met me.

every time i open my eyes i see remnants of the battle.

i watch blood splatter on the wall, plain and simple and anything but clean.

i hear shouts and screams of fervor, cheers for the living and boos for the dead.

i feel stares clawing at the back of my head- warning me of oncoming attacks.  but i don't care, i didn't care what happened to me.  not in those moments.  i feel repressed anger resurfacing without my permission, hatred directed at me from the world that lay inside and the world that lay out.

i taste nothing- my mouth like a desert.  dry and desolate, warm and unsympathizing.  there was no escape, not even in my chapped lips.

i smell death, somehow i had recognized the scent.  maybe i was so familiar with the idea that identifying it had become a sixth sense to me.