One question popped into my mind as we made our way to the sleeping room: how on earth was I going to sleep, tonight? Simple, yet true. I was already an insomniac. How was I going to sleep on a war ship? I sighed as I sat on my bed, right above Simon. I just stared ahead at the wall in front of me. I noticed a stain upon the material. It was coffee-brown, and the shape was much like a deformed puddle. It was dry, but wet at the same time. It was just a simple stain, yet… I just couldn’t stop staring at it. The more I stared, the more it morphed. The shape changed sizes and appearances. It changed into my father, disappointment clear in his face. It changed into my mother, her careless stare was empty and cold. It changed into Art, his smile somehow not comforting anymore. And it changed into me, weak, tired, and incapable. I looked away from the stain. I was snapped out of my thoughts when Art passed me, placing his hand on my shoulder.
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- - Are you okay? He asked.
- - Yeah…I think so.
- - Good… Well, uh, good night. I’ll see you tomorrow. He said with a smile.
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I mumbled a simple “you too” and he climbed to get to his bed. I lied down on my back and stared at the bed above me. The razor thin mattress was quite dirty. I wonder if Simon is staring at my dirty mattress at the exact same time as me. I mean, it’s a war ship, not the Ritz, but still… They could have tried. I sighed, but quickly stopped, not to disturb anyone who might actually be planning on sleeping tonight. The room was so quiet, I could hear some people breathing. It was awkward to say the least. I was sharing a room with 21 men, and I only knew four of them. I have never shared a room with anyone… I grew up an only child, and my parents never even put my crib n their room. It’s a drastic change from never having shared a room with anyone to sharing a room with 21 strange men. I tried to close my eyes, but I knew I wasn’t going to sleep. Suddenly, a memory flooded into my head…
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I was eleven years old. Baseball was a popular sport, at the time, and my father wanted me to play it, rather than read in my room all day. I showed up at the field, eyes wide with worry. I had never played a sport before. My father showed me how to hold the bat and sent me off to play. I told him I didn’t want to, but he said that if I didn’t, I would never be a man. I believed him, of course, so I did it anyway. I was quite terrible, really. I was hit in the face with a ball and began crying uncontrollably. I was only eleven. Of course I was going to explode because of a measly black eye. My father ran up to me and slapped me across the face.
“Boys don’t cry, James. Never forget that.”
He got his way. I never forgot that. I lived the rest of my life under the illusion that “boys don’t cry”. Maybe he was right…maybe they don’t cry. Or maybe they do. It seemed that the more I was in this stupid war, the more questions were just pelted at me like I didn’t have enough on my plate, already. More memories from times with my father flooded into my brain.
We were in the car. It was a warm autumn morning, and we were going somewhere that I can’t quite recall… I don’t remember if it was 1936 or 37 or something like that. I stared at the leaves all around. They were red, yellow, and orange and they fell ever so gracefully from the trees. I wish it could stay this way all year around. My father hummed along to some tune on the radio that I didn’t recognize. Suddenly, he began audibly saying words. I remember them exactly…
“Me and my girl, meant for each other, sent for each other, and liking it so.”
I remember my father chuckling faintly and saying something like: “One day, you’ll find a girl you can sing about.”. I just nodded my head and fake smiled. I was visualizing his disappointed expression when I would tell him that I’m never getting married. Well, not to a woman, anyway. He would be so angry. All he’s ever wanted for me to be a perfect, strong, emotionless, cold, harsh, muscular man. I became the opposite of all those things. I’m not sure if I qualify myself as a man. But then again, maybe I don’t think of myself as a man because he made me think that I’m not a man. I mean, I have the parts, so I must be a man. I might be a man on the outside, but on the inside, I’m a boy. A small, helpless boy. I wish it wasn’t like that. I wish I felt like a man.
A loud snore was heard throughout the room. It startled me, but then it just surprised me. After all, how could somebody sleep at a time like this? I inhaled deeply, slightly relieved that I could now make a little more noise due to this man who was being quite loud so it would drown out my own sound. I laughed in my head. The judgmental stares are going to be great for him in the morning. I squinted. I know I’m not gonna sleep tonight, but I can think. I’m often in my own thoughts, so this isn’t special… I sighed again. A memory from my mother this time, found its way into my mind. I was seven or eight years old, and I was watching my mother cook dinner or bake cookies or something. I watched with wonder, hoping that I would one day bake as well as she did. My mother laughed a little after noticing my staring.
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“One day, James, you’ll find a woman of your own who can cook for you.”, she said.
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“I want to cook for myself, though!”
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She laughed again.
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“No. Cooking is a woman’s job. It’s a job for your wife. Men and boys don’t cook.”
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I don’t think I ever touched another cooking utensil ever since. She scared me out of cooking, stating that it would take away my manhood. What is manhood, anyway? It’s something men try to keep, all their lives, but it’s so much work that it would be easier to just let go. What’s the worst that can happen if you do let go? You get called a woman? A pansy? Weak? That just doesn’t seem that bad. Maybe, not seeing the problem with those names means I’ve lost my manhood a long time ago. Or maybe manhood is determined by your sex. If you're a man, you have manhood. Do women have womanhood? I don’t know. I’ve never heard of womanhood, but then again, I’m not a woman. Maybe there’s some sort of sacred woman bond where womanhood exists, but they have to try their best to keep it from men. No, that’s too complicated. And how would every woman in the world not share? I’m just acting crazy because I'm out of thoughts. I’ve been in my own mind for so long that I’ve run out of things to say- er, think. I repressed another sigh. I’m just so exasperated with myself. Every moment I spend here feels like one second closer to death.
Suddenly a hand reached down. There was a paper in it. I looked at it up and down until it shook itself. I carefully and slowly took the paper, concerned by what it might be. The hand then passed down an electric torch. I shone it at the paper. It was a letter.
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Dear James,
I know you’re not sleeping. Neither am I. There’s a pencil with the torch, you can write beneath this message…
- Art
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I smiled to myself. The pencil was in my hands. I thought of what to say and wrote it down onto the paper.
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Dear Art,
You were right, I’m awake. Who could ever sleep at a moment like this? I know some people are sleeping, but I’m not really sure how they do that. Are you nervous? I’m nervous. You seem calm, but are you? I understand how it feels to have to pretend like it’s all okay… Like you’re not scared. But you can tell me. I don’t mind if you’re scared. Love,
- James.
I passed it up. My knees pressed against my chest, I counted the seconds until I received the paper back. I waited and waited until I heard sniffling. I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. The sniffling turn into quiet muffled sobbing. The realisation overtook me when I realized that Art was crying. I wasn’t sure what to do, I mean, I can’t speak, or I’ll wake up 21 men, but do I have a choice? I’ve never seen or heard Art be sad, and it really saddened me. Each quiet sob stabbed at my heart, until it was too much for me to handle.
I stood up on my bed and climbed onto his. He was startled at first, tears visibly still in his eyes. I just sat next to him, both in a ball. He cried into his knees as I pressed my shoulder up against his. I decided to stroke his hair as he sobbed again and again. I felt so bad. My heart sank at the mere vision of him crumbling in sadness. He tried to cry quietly, but he choked on his tears, making him sink deeper into his knees, and his shoulders tense up. I draped my arm around him and leaned my head at his side. He was shaking and mumbling stuff that I couldn’t quite make out. I tapped his head, so he’d look at me. Art lifted his face and looked at me, his bottom lip quivering. I cupped the side of his face and wiped away his tears with my thumb. He placed his hand on top of the one that was on his face. Art closed his eyes and leaned into my hand. I almost melted at the sight. I felt so bad. The way he had a tired and sad look on his face, just made me want to hold him and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but I can’t lie to him. I have no idea if everything’s going to be okay. But I can hold him anyway, so I pulled him onto my side, and he leaned his head against my shoulder. His crying became quieter and quieter until it was reduced to harsh breathing through the nose.
The moment was silent, but it spoke a million words. We both stared ahead, leaning against each other. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. I furrowed m eyebrows in sadness, as I observed his features. I don’t like seeing him like that. I sighed just loud enough for him to hear.
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- - I’m sorry… I whispered.
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He just nodded and leaned further into my shoulder. I want to apologize again. I want all his problems to be fixed with a simple “I’m sorry” from someone who isn’t even responsible. I just want to see him happy. I haven’t even known Art for that long, but I know I love him. It’s complicated… love is complicated. You feel like you’ve known someone forever, even though it’s only been a few days. I could feel him shaking, and I felt my heart drop. He shut his eyes and I just looked ahead. After a while, his breathing became slower, and I realized that he was asleep. I couldn’t move, since I didn’t want to wake him, but I didn’t want to stay like this until morning, because I didn’t know if it was allowed or if it would raise suspicion. I sighed as I looked at him. Maybe I could just stay like this for a little while… His breathing was at a steady pace as his chest rose and fell with every breath. He looked so peaceful when he was asleep. Suddenly, he shifted, furrowing his eyebrows in the process. I got worried that he might wake up, but he didn’t. I wondered how long I had left like this. I never wanted to leave. He was asleep on my shoulder, and I was so content. I felt hollow, empty, if that makes any sense. Emotions were gone. They weren’t necessary. Everything just felt like it was falling into place. But only for a brief second, because I heart the bed creak. I quickly realized that these mattresses were not made for two people. I gently lifted his head off from my shoulder and set it down on the pillow. I observed him for a couple of seconds too long, before realizing that that was creepy. I went back to my own bed, crossing my arms and staring at the bed above me.
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With these 21 strange men, at least I’ll know that he’s there.
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