He woke up in panic noticing the field being quiet and empty around him “wait! You there wait for me!” he shouted loudly and helplessly as he rushed running behind the moving buses. “Stop, I’m still here!” he ran and ran but as if no one seemed to notice him; or they actually chose to ignore him.
The lonely man dragged his backpack, his rusty weapons and walked ahead following the tracks of the far away buses disappearing at the end of the woods.
He walked alone with his memories and thoughts; thinking of a passed away life as a fighter, mocking his own misery how ironically those that he once fought for their rights, those whom he defended, protected, and sacrificed his life for simply hopped into the bus while he was sleeping without bothering to wake him up or even consider a second glance back at him.
His journey was rough and tiring; he stopped every now and then for a small break to catch his breath and strength to continue his trip. He tried to rest, to relax but it seemed impossible; the memories, the past events and incidents struggled their way up, ruthless images crossing in front his eyes, the voices invading his head and made him lose his mind, he panicked, leaned down and grabbed his whiskey container from his bag; he drank his misery away until it was time to move again.
He moved in straight struggle until he reached his destination, where his people reached way before him. He arrived in a very bad shape, with his messy long hair, massive beard, old uniform, and stinky old backpack. His odd looks and presence attracted the sights of passing by people; the kids were scared of him and the old ones treated him as an outsider, a stranger, a revolutionist against their beliefs; an odd person who will never belong in this world of theirs.
He searched ahead for familiar faces; faces of his betrayed mates whom preceded him, but he couldn’t recognize them; they were all dressed up in all kinds of fancy uniforms and colorful masks.
An enormous strange feeling overwhelmed his whole body and he found himself lonely in that crowded world. Once again he dragged his backpack as he searched for a small place to crash in; away from the frauds, fakes, and repulsiveness of a world he once fought for. He crashed there in a humble room decorated by pictures of passed away friends and fighters, hunted by the recollections of the past and fear of the future visions; with a whiskey bottle as his only companion.
Time has frozen that day when the buses have moved and he was left behind with a broken heart of an innocent kid and the mind and face of a fearless man; forgotten and trapped between the memories and nightmares of fires, death, and blood…
He is the ghost of the harsh past of dreams haunting the fake cruel present!
(Based on a true story )
3 thoughts on “The Ghost”
Your writings reflects our life and expresses our unspoken feelings
Unfortunately that’s the case of many men who fought and were welling to sacrifice their lives for us
Love the way you describe everything, you can put life imo anything, I am really sure that journalism was made for you !