Copyright 2013 Jon Tattrie
All Rights Reserved
I wake screaming, lunging forward, arms and legs kicking out. I’m on my feet running, stumbling along the mud wall, hollering, but I can’t escape. I collide with the trench and kick and hit at it in a panic. I punch and scream and punch and scream and something gives. I pull back for another blow when a soft voice reaches me.
“Tommy,” she whispers, a cool wind in an inferno. “Breathe, breathe …”
I pound on the trench, but the voice has caught me. “Breathe, breathe … come back, Tommy …”
Fear subsides, the mud walls fades into the bedroom in our rundown little house on Rector Street. Evie is rubbing my back, whispering. My heart slows, my breathing settles. My right hand is a fist aimed at the wall. More holes. More repairs.
I’ve been home from the frontlines for three months, but my head keeps lurching back to the battlefields. This is Halifax, not Europe. I’ve left the war behind.