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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2072571
Rated: E · Fiction · Dark · #2072571
The delirium of those touched by the warfare.
It was the beginning of another painfully, monotonous night. Wind steady outside, news people talking about ongoing tragedies and a worsening situation engulfing our beloved planet. The house was in its usual state: messy. A few cupboards were open, exposing cups and glasses once used at a seemingly distant time when the house was full of guests, mingling and enjoying each other's various lies and stories of accomplishments. In other words, when the house was alive. It was now in its twilight. Wallpaper was coming out on some spots of the house, spider webs were becoming more salient in the corners; It felt as though the house was fading in to obscurity right in front of your eyes.

Emmanuel was reclined on the couch, noticing the fading of the house as his "medication", at least that's what his doctor had called the death pills, were taking full effect. He was an already jaded, middle-aged man who had been born during one war, and fought in the next. He only had his memories to keep him company and they were tainted with images of the bloody second world war. Depression plagued his mind which showed in his skin, now wrinkling and withering. The doctor upped his dosage to "increase the effectiveness of the drug". More like "increasing my likelihood of becoming an addict to increase your fuckin profit" he thought in disgust. he was now taking 5 pills of something he didn't even remember the name of. Days became fused into one another and time slowly dissolved. Above the t.v was a picture of his wife, now deceased. She was wearing her favorite sundress, white and scattered with medium-sized red roses, standing in front of their house striking her favorite pose; pinching her dress on both sides and lifting them, her head slightly leaning to her left and smiling the most euphoric smile. He remembered that day as outstandingly pleasant; the breeze was cool, the sun was showering its rays abundantly and little children were playing outside, oblivious to everything else. He drifted to sleep, basking in the memory of a long lost sun.

A thunderous explosion violently pulled him out of his transient sleep. The shell shock kick started in full gear, forcing him to shake uncontrollably, eyes wide and pacing, desperately searching for the source of the bomb, head jerking left to right. His countenance was that of a terrified soldier looking death in the face, which ever form it was death took at the time: the end of a shotgun barrel, the sight of a grenade rolling steadily to your feet or the sharp end of a metal object. As sweat showered his face, he caught site of the t.v and realized that was the source of the bomb. Reality slowly trickled back as he realized he wasn't in a war-zone. He got himself back together and reclined back on to the couch and started reaching for a cigarette. Then he paused. He could feel Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. He's eyes traced their way up to the picture of his wife. She was gone. He was staring at a picture that was minus an object that should, and always has been there. He's heart rate quickened. Sweat greased his body as he tried to fathom what he was seeing. He stayed fixated on the picture for a solid minute before his eyes got too dry to stay open and closed. He laughed hysterically as he massaged the bridge of his nose and then his eyes. "you're just seeing shit man, that's all...it's just the fuckin meds," he tried to convince himself.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2072571