LEAVING

Mum is unhappy. I hear her sobbing downstairs- my dad says nothing. I don’t want to go when all I can do is pack my clothes without a word. This place doesn't feel like my home. That garrison down in England is and will remain to be unless someone stops me. Flakes of hair escape my camouflage cap and my jacket is dirty with mud, filth and dried blood. 

My bedroom was hollow, anything of value to me lay in my bag. All that was left was the duvet on my bed and the clothes in the wardrobe that were just too small- yet to be replaced or noticed. 

I made my way downstairs. Each step thundered underneath me. I saw my mum. And my dad. He was a veteran. He looked me up and down, proudness spread across his face. The flowers in the vase were past due. My mum dropped at my feet, clawing up my legs. She begged that I didn’t go. I frowned. I wish I could stay here. My dad placed a withered and scarred hand on my shoulder saying his final goodbyes- like I’d never see him again. I got to the front door before I stopped.

“I don’t wanna go. Mum, don't make me go.” my last pleas started. My dad’s face contorted in disgust. He told me those words dishonoured this country. “Please, just say something, anything, that will make this place my home again. Something that will stop me walking out that door.” 

My dad just stared, appalled. My mum cried out incoherent words. Words I hoped would have let me stay. They didn’t. I walked out the door, and towards what seemed certain death. The last petal also left from its own home, the wilted flower.