The sleeping room is awfully quiet. It’s so deathly silent that I can hear my heartbeat sometimes. It’s horrible to feel like this, you know. Like I’m living on borrowed time. Like I have no seconds to spare, and every minute is just a reminder of my death. Waste, waste, waste. That’s all I’m doing. Wasting time like there’s a tomorrow. It feels like there’s this timer going off. My death is too close, I know I’m too young to fear it, but I do anyway. It’s like I never once thought what would happen if I lived. I kept telling Art that he would, and I forgot to do the same for myself. Although, I don’t think he believes it anyways. I like to think that we’re both in the same situation, that we both understand what the other is feeling. I think I just want to think that so I don’t have to feel so…irrelevant. I just keep feeling irrelevant. It sounds stupid to say (because I was never a fan of travel) but I want to have done everything. I want to have experienced every emotion, I want to have seen every sight, I want to have lived through every situation… But of course, now that I know this about myself, it’s too late.
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I might have some time left, sure, but how am I supposed to live out my dream of doing everything if I’m stuck on this Goddamn boat? I don’t understand this recent ‘adrenaline addiction’. I don’t know what else to call it. Let me explain : I’m always thinking about this stuff. I’m always thinking about the war, dying, getting hurt… Even though, five seconds ago, I wasn’t even thinking about it, because I was with Art. As soon as we parted ways, though, it all came rushing back. Only when something happens in the moment, I can forget the other thing for a short second. But, sadly, it all leaks back in immediately after, like my brain was itching for me to feel this way again, like it wanted me to feel this way. My stupid damn brain who wants me to feel everything that I am feeling, and none of it is good. And why? Why would it do that to me? After all the loyal years. When I lay it out like that, it sounds pretty dumb. But it makes sense to me, because it feels dumb, it doesn’t make any sense, and it’s horrible. I can’t tell what I’m scared of more : living like this forever or dying too soon.
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It’s all under my control, that much I know. I can stop feeling like this with a snap of my fingers. I control it all. But knowing that, I still can’t help being afraid. I’m afraid because I’m going to die, and I’m not ready. I’m not ready to go, because I haven’t done anything yet (waste, waste, waste, baby), I haven’t accomplished anything. If I die, no one will know my name, aside from four people, and even then, no one will have anything nice to say at my funeral. I’m too young for this. I still have so much to say, so much to do, I feel like there’s duct tape over my mouth. I have words in my throat that are itching to spill out, that will have to be contained forever. I’m going to die unready, I’m going to die knowing that my existence meant nothing and that I will never change the world. It’s strange because I was never an ambitious person, so I’m not really sure where all of this is coming from, but I can’t help but feel that way. It’s all part of the game, I guess. You play until you don’t.
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Death is forever, and like a normal person, forever scares me. It was a concept created specifically to confuse humans. Naturally, we’re scared of what we don’t understand. I grew up in a heavily Christian household, so I was raised with Heaven or Hell, but I don’t know if I really believe that. It’s too convenient. Well, not only do I not believe in Heaven or Hell, but I hope it doesn’t exist either. Based on some thoughts I’ve had, and some lifestyles I’ve been partaking in, I don’t think that God is going to grant me the upstairs option. All my life I’ve been stuck with all of these ‘don’t do this’ rules, or I’d go to Hell. It just seems so useless. If life is so short, why live it like that? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I think at this point, all of that ‘faith’ stuff is just a way to translate control, and out here…it can’t come out too much. I know a lot of people are counting on God for this one. They’re counting on him to get them out of it. But no God would allow this to happen. At least that means I’m not going to hell.
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I shifted a little in my sleep. I have no idea what time it is. There’s no clock, no window, just the colonel at the ass crack of dawn and his Goddamn trumpet. So I’m left alone with these thoughts. On impulse, reached up and pushed underneath Art's bed. I wanted to see if he was awake. There was a long pause until I saw his arm drop from above. He waved. I smiled and clapped his hand delicately (I didn’t know what else to do). He put his arm back up. I kept grinning like an idiot. The fear of death doesn’t leave me, but I can be happy at the same time. Just then, there was a big gagging sound and something liquid fell onto the ground. I sat up.
“Holy shit! Jo! Are you okay?!” Marty whisper-yelled.
Something large fell onto the floor. I heard someone get up.
“Jo! Jo! Can you hear me?! Are you okay?! Jo!” Marty yelled, not whispering anymore.
“Can’t you be quiet, Pvt. McAllan?” said George with a groggy tone.
“No! It’s Jo, he’s passed out!”
I sat up straighter. The door swung open. Light flooded into the dark room, I wasn’t sure if it was artificial or sunlight. Surely enough, Jo was passed out on the ground with Marty standing over him, clearly panicked. In the doorframe, two men stood, most likely officers (they both had fancy badges), looking over at the scene. One of the men whispered something to the other man and the latter ran away. The second officer walked over to Jo and put two fingers on his neck. Almost everyone was staring. A small bit of time later, the officer from before came back with a smart-looking man with round glasses and a black beard. He was wearing a doctor’s coat with civilian clothes underneath. He ran over to Jo and muttered something to the other officer. Finally, the doctor carried Jo out by his shoulders, while the officer grabbed him by his feet and took him out. Marty was watching all of this with a traumatized look on his face.
“Hey, come on, what’s going on here?” he said.
“At ease, Private, go back to what you were doing,” said one of the officers.
“No, tell me what’s going on with him!”
The officers seemed surprised at Marty’s tone. The two that carried Jo left the sight. The second officer stayed, most likely to understand Marty’s behaviour.
“You shouldn’t say no to an officer… Not enlisted men like you.”
“Men like me?”
“Enlisted.”
“No, no, you said enlisted men like me, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lower class.”
“I grew up very wealthy. Just because I’m here by force and not just because, by golly, I just love this Goddamn war, doesn’t mean that I’m any less than you. It just means that I still have my brain. It just means that I’m not batshit outta my mind.”
Barely after Marty finished his sentence, the officer hit him on the head. Hard.
“Nobody wants to be here, son, not even me. Go back to your bed.”
Marty didn’t move a muscle.
“Is he okay?” he muttered slowly.
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The officer had a glimmer of pity. But it went away as soon as it arrived. He walked away without answering the question. Marty held back tears. The room was painfully quiet.
“Is he dead?” asked George insensitively.
“No he’s not fuckin’ dead, Georgie,” said Marty, fed up.
“Private Jones,” George corrected him.
“Jesus Christ, will you guys shut up!” said another soldier in the room.
There was a small pause.
“Sorry,” said Marty under his breath.
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The door shut and the lights were off. The room was almost pitch black. Art leaned his hand down again. I smiled. He tapped his finger. Even with the lack of words, I could tell that he was saying something about what just happened.I wasn’t sure what to do as a reply, so I grabbed onto his finger. Once he took his hand away, I was stuck in my own thoughts again. Nothing but a loud timer and an overwhelming sense of insignificance and waste. So much waste. Every second that passed wasn’t viewed as a second, it was just an excuse to get closer to death. Everything moves so fast, and there’s no way to just stop it. There’s no way to just slow it down and take a breath. It’s just second after second after second, and it won’t take a single break. It just keeps going on and on. I just wish I knew if there was a point to life or not.
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And on top of it, I can’t tell which is better : repression or acceptance. If I start going on the acceptance train, I’ll lose all of the progress I made when repressing. But if I keep repressing, I’ll never be ready to die - which is inevitable. At the same time, I don’t even know if acceptance is possible. Anything I decide to do doesn’t matter. My end is just the same as it ever was. Questioning whether any of it means anything at all is the only way to make myself feel like I’ve won. Like I haven’t been screwed over by life. Like I put the king in check (not checkmate, I can never do that, but I can do something to piss off the big guy a little). I know it’s useless, though, I’m not stupid. I heard the door swing open and I immediately threw my pillow over my head so I couldn’t hear whatever cacophony they made to wake us up. The muffled noise I was hearing through the pillow finally ceased. I removed the pillow from my face. The colonel stood at the door frame, two other men in front of him. Others started to get up. I did too.
“Everybody up, immediately!” he shouted.
We all complied. I stood in between Art and Simon in front of our stack of beds. He began walking, I assumed aimlessly, and eyes every single one of us with an intense amount of judgment, for a reason that I didn’t really understand.
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“It seems that there is a mysterious illness floating around here… There are a few who are sick.”
“Is this about the boy who threw up last night?” asked Marty with worry.
The colonel turned around very quickly, his eyes wide and his expression angry.
“Shut your trap, Private!” he paused.
Marty nodded his head and took a step back.
“If you feel sick, pretend that you’re not. In Germany, we can’t just stop the war so you can cry about it like a girl. The soldier who we brought into the medical section this morning was an exception : he was and is unconscious. But if any of you are infected, just keep going.”
He paused.
“Will division six please step forward?” he said.
We all took a step. Not just me, Art, Simon, George and Marty, but the others of division six, the ones that we didn’t know the names of.
“Seeing as he was in division six, you all are at risk. Unless you are close to death, I do not want to hear a single word from any of you.”
Marty’s expression turned a little panicked. By putting two and two together, and based on what the colonel had just said, it meant that something was seriously wrong with Jo.
“Now get to breakfast everyone.”
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And what are we supposed to do with that information? Me and Art shared a look. The others in the room started moving. We all left and started making our way toward the cafeteria. As we walked in the hall, we passed the medical area. Marty stopped dead, making a few people who were walking behind him trip backward. He peeked his head in. Me and Art did too. Jo was lying down on one of the cots, his face pale and sickly. Rose-Mary stood next to him. Upon noticing us, she smiled and waved. Me and Art did the same in return. Marty frowned.
“What’s she smiling about?” he whispered. “Doesn’t she care that he’s sick?”
Art sighed. “I’m real sorry about this happening to you… Really.”
Marty looked down. “Thanks, Art.”
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I didn’t even know what to say. His closest friend was ill. I didn’t know if he was going to make it out of this one. I knew I couldn’t ever say anything to make him feel better about what was happening, so I took the decision to just stay quiet. It would be better for me and Marty. It didn’t really look like Jo was in a critical condition, though, so maybe it wasn’t so bad. Nonetheless, Marty was right to worry. If I was in his place I definitely would. It makes me nervous just to think about being in his place. Wasting all of that time being sad about someone. Wasting your final weeks… I would like to say that I could never, but I could. And most likely would. I think if I was in Marty’s place, waste, waste, waste wouldn’t matter to me one bit. The waste, waste, waste syndrome can come in many forms. Even in children. Or legal adults who still consider themselves children. I’m twenty-three years old, but it feels like only yesterday that I was two, drinking from a milk bottle. Waste, waste, waste doesn’t care how young or old you are. It just cares that you know you’re wasting time. And listen to me. Marty’s best friend could be dying, and I’m worrying about phantom feelings. We all finally arrived at the eating area and sat down in our usual spots. Nobody ate except for George.
“What happened to Jo? If you don’t mind me asking…” said Simon, looking right at Marty.
“I do mind, Simon. Quite a bit actually,” he paused and furrowed his eyebrows. “Sorry.”
“That’s alright. I saw him in the medical room… He looked okay.”
“He didn’t really,” Marty shook his head.
“He did. He didn’t look healthy, but he definitely isn’t dying.”
“Yeah.”
There was another pause. George put his fork down.
“All this talk of illness is making me lose my appetite,” he said, unprompted.
“You’re lucky you have one to lose,” said Art.
“What do you mean by that, Pvt. Johnson?”
“Look around, Georgie, no one’s eating.”
“I’m eating.”
Art shook his head with squinted eyes.
“My God, you are the dumbest person on this boat… If not the world.”
George stood up abruptly.
“You shut up!”
“Division six!” yelled an officer from another table.
Embarrassed, George sat back down.
“Marty, if you need anything…” said Art.
“I’m good, Art, thanks.”
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There was another pause. I looked down at my plate. A pile of meat. That’s what was on it. Just a disgusting mushy pile of processed, canned meat. Who would eat this and enjoy it? George always ate the food. No matter how horrible, how grimey, how disgusting, he always ate it. And pretty quickly. Art was right, what he said about his appetite, but I just wasn’t sure how he could have one. Nobody has one, it’s not just me who acts this way… You’d think since they were sending us all to our deaths, they’d have nicer meals to give us. I bet they have better meals on death-row. We do have quite a bit in common with them : we’re both counting down the minutes to our death, we both know that we’re going to die in the worst place possible, in the worst way possible…the only difference is that they did something wrong, and we’re innocent.
(And they get better food.)
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