Page 1 of The Darkness Within

It amazes me how long I can stare at a tree, as if I’ve never seen one before. The giant oak standing sentinel outside my window captures my attention for hours. How the dappled light filters through the branches, casting shadows on the linoleum floor of my room, or the endless variations of color; greens and yellows in every shade of the spectrum. The breeze ripples the leaves like confetti blowing in the wind.

If I close my eyes, I can imagine the thick roots beneath the dirt, the way they spread far and wide like greedy fingers, how they dig down deep in the earth anchoring the sturdy trunk above, searching for nutrients to soak up so it can thrive.

Underground.

Beneath the dirt.

Those words always trigger terrifying memories. Not everything thrives underground. Not everything finds an anchor in the soil. The darkest parts of the Earth, underneath the ground where the light doesn’t reach, depleted me of everything I need to thrive. The darkness almost took my life, and at that point, I was ready to give it up gladly for a moment of peace.

I can smell it, the earthy, dank soil, the heavy stale air. The pungent, rusty smell of blood. The acidic ammonia scent of urine. The scents invade my mind and my nostrils until I can experience them with every one of my senses. I can taste them. I can feel them. So much so that they become a part of me.

They’ll always be a part of me.

“Sergeant Sommers.”

They’re whispering again, plotting, searching for me.

“Sergeant Sommers.”

If I keep my eyes closed, maybe I can hide. Buy myself a few precious moments.

“Sergeant Sommers.”

The voices are louder, which means they’re coming closer. Pressing myself down into the mattress, I try to become as small as possible, to make my body flat beneath the blanket. Maybe they won’t see me. Maybe this time I’ll be spared.

“Sergeant Sommers. I have your medicine. Can you sit up for me, please?”

The past collides with the present in terrifying clarity. “Don’t fucking touch me!” I snatch my arm from her grip, swallowing down the thick, bitter taste of fear coating the back of my throat.

“Sergeant—”

“Don’t fucking touch me! Back up.”

I failed again. To be invincible. To be invisible. Actually, I’m completely invisible, although everyone can see me. They don’t really see me, though. They see the shell of the man I used to be. They see the consequence of my captivity. But they don’t see me. They don’t see Nashville Sommers.

“Take cover! Everyone get down!”

Gunshots echo through my living room, men shouting orders, the grinding of chunks of rubble from the desecrated buildings crunching into dust beneath the tracks of the tank. The explosion from the tank’s cannon is so loud, it might as well be happening in real life instead of through my TV screen.

“Nashville, what in the world are you watching?” my mother shouts from the kitchen.

“A movie, Mom.”

“Saving Private Ryan was the one decent thing we were able to pull out of this whole God awful, shitty mess.”

“Language, Nashville!” she admonishes.

“It’s not me, it’s the show, Mom.”

“Shut that off and go outside and play. My show is about to come on.”

Reluctantly, I shut the TV off, and when I turn back, my father is standing there with a stern look. “You know better, son. Your mother isn’t keen on war movies.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“So why do you keep watching them?”

“Because I’m gonna be a soldier someday when I grow up, Sir.”

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