Reality Of Fate: Trauma

Author's Note:  This is a small part of a much larger series called Reality Of Fate: Beaumont.  This is just a very, very tiny character piece of one of the main leads of the series.



Medic, o’ Medic

Heal my broken body

Heal my cuts and bruises.



But Medic O’ Medic

Can you heal a broken soul?



As with every night, the sound of weapons fire begins and is followed by the voices of people long since gone, nothing but dust in an unforgiving void.

Again the explosions follow, again the blood flows freely from limbs blown off or shot, from sucking chest wounds, from people dying or dead.

Again and again this happens and again and again I try to not give in to my ever present despair that I try so hard to keep locked away within myself.



Again, always again, as it has been for over a thousand years and as it will always be for many thousands more.

Again my soul feels like it is falling apart and again I piece it back together with the glue of my determination to not lose myself to the threat of madness.



Again the wounds of a soldier no longer of the battlefield cries silent tears for the horror she has witnessed in her life, again she fights the tears back and again she forces herself to hold herself together.



For she has to hold herself together, she must, for the sake of her daughter she must not let her despair from her past consume her.

Again and again, it is always again.



~



Past:



Young hands hold the rifle tightly as if it is the most precious thing she can ever have and has ever had in her fifteen years of life, in this regards considering the current situation then it was the most precious thing she could have.



“Beaumont, give them long range cover!”  She nods in obedience even though her nod is not seen and shifts into a sniping position.  She can hear her sister on the comm. clip calling for covering fire and she knows that she and the other snipers will have to work fast before the line troops can be overwhelmed.

Keeping her breathing calm and her aim steady, Reina Harit Beaumont, 15 years old and a trained soldier for the British Empire, takes aim at her first target and fires, her shot being rewarded as her target is hit in the head and sent down hard to the cold ground.

Moving to her next target quickly, she fires once again and takes another soldier down. 

Many of her targets were as young as her, some older, some younger. 

This was policy of the Empire and the European Confederation – train the children of the Military Bloods, send them out to die and if they survive then turn them into legends.

Click, lock, shoot, click, lock, shoot.  It is almost a rhythm of death to her ears when combined with the screams of the dying.



“A dozen incoming, shift targets and dispatch”  Another nod then a quick shift into another sniping position and another round of firing.

One soldier, two soldiers, three soldiers four, one by one they fall, one by one they march to their deaths.  Such is the life of a soldier who has no other choice but to obey orders.  It is distasteful, cruel, vile – it is policy.



Click, lock, shoot.



~



Today:



Fingers wrap themselves around the handle of the plain looking mug and cold, refreshing water flows down a not really dry throat, she can not feel the coldness of the water but she can taste it.  It is a soothing balm against the images of death in her mind.

Gulp, sigh in quiet contentment, rinse mug, place in drainer.  A simple pattern that sooths her troubled mind.

She knows what is wrong with her, she knows that what she is suffering from is related to her former military days when she was younger and mortal.  But she is a product of the Empire and as such she does not talk about it with others, not even her only surviving family – her daughter.

She just endures and pushes herself to keep going for her daughter’s sake, she cannot give in to her trauma like her sister did, she cannot turn into a monster.



Walking quietly with well practiced ease so as to not to make a sound that could wake her daughter or her beloved, she heads over to the computer in the corner of the living room that she has been using for the past couple of hours and brings up a new tab.

Maybe, she thinks to herself, maybe I can find some help without having to say a word to anyone.



~



Past:



Three prisoners are before her, two females and one male, one of the females is a year older than her, the other around the same age of seventeen years, the male is about fourteen years of age.  All of them soldiers of the Confederation and all of them sentenced to die by their government, however that death would come around.



“I am tired of this”  She says quietly, her voice echoing slightly in the interrogation room.  “Surely there must be more humane ways of killing their military arms off without sending their own soldiers, their very protectors, off to die for some meaningless nonsense like this”

No one answers her, they agree with her but they do not answer her.  No one ever questions policy, to do so is to be seen as a traitor and the punishment for traitors is the deaths of their families and themselves.



The prisoners are all un-gagged and they do not resist their captors, they had willingly surrendered when their captors had caught them trying to run away from their encampment.

This was not unheard of for soldiers of either empire to desert, they were young and scared, they did not want to die in some meaningless war.  They wanted to have a choice in their lives instead of being demanded and forced to serve due to policy.



“You knew that your actions would bring death to you and your families yet you ran anyway, are you fools or simply cowards?  I don’t want to kill any of you but I am under orders from my government to do so!  I would rather set you all free and wish you luck, but orders are orders.  Do you have anything to say before you become dreamers of the dream?”  One stands up, the young woman the same age as her.  She is pretty in an unwashed, hungry looking way with her matted auburn hair and blue grey eyes, her figure showing the proportions of a beautiful young woman who would perhaps become a beautiful grown woman.



“We accepted the cost of our fleeing before we ran, we have no families to return to, no homes.  They were taken from us by the Nosferatu several weeks ago.  We ran because we wanted to die by our own choice, not by the choices of those who care nothing for any of us and we will die by the choice we made.  If that is to die at the hands of a Beaumont who wishes us no harm, then that is the will of the Creators.  We shall go to the horizon knowing that we are free of the fools in power”  She sits back down and squeezes the shoulders of her fellow deserters, they respond with squeezing her hands gently.  They were ready.

Ignoring the new weight forming in her soul, Reina takes the combat knife from her leg strap and approaches the prisoners.  She didn’t want to do this, she wanted to do anything but this.



“Rise then, rise and face the horizon with dignity”  They rise to their feet and hold their heads up with pride, their throats exposed.  Taking a deep breath and exhaling with an unhappy sigh, Reina whips the knife at their throats, slicing each throat open with ease before plunging the knife into their hearts as a mercy killing, twisting hard and tearing the knife out.

As the life fades from their eyes, she throws the knife over to a corner, curls up close to the bodies and cries into her knees.  No one bothers to comfort her, for they also feel grief at what had been ordered.



~



Today:



Hesitating with her fingers over the keyboard, she wonders if this is the best thing to do.  Who would really care about the horrors she sees in her memories?  Who in this universe cares about the trauma that former soldiers feel after they are no longer soldiers?

Who would ever listen to a broken soul that is screaming for help?  The humans of this universe have shown a considerable degree of cold-heartedness towards their fellow humans, they placed money as more important than the lives of others after all.  A disgusting act for sure.



Yet a small voice in her begs with her to let it all out, to express the horrors she has witnessed in her long life.

Fingers twitch, curl and flex, images come and go in her mind.



“Let it out”  The voice says to her within her heart, a voice that is filled with pain.  “Let it out”



‘My name is Reina Harit Beaumont, I am…older than I look.  I was a soldier who committed brutal acts due to orders, I have witnessed death of a degree that can never be fully said in words.

I have killed, I have murdered, I have followed orders and I have had to struggle with the horrors of what I have done in my past.



And I am suffering from what you call post traumatic stress disorder, PTSD for short.  I…I need help.’



We all need help even if we force ourselves to say we don’t.