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Crystal Tear

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Crystal Tear The sound of the blasts still echoed in my ears, the screams of fellow team mates, the retaliating bang of the rifles and hand-guns. The ghosts of their pale, dead faces haunted me as I tried unsuccessfully to slip into sleep and escape reality for a little while. The atmosphere didn't help at all, as I could hear the loud wails of the mourning mothers for their sons, and every single time I opened my eyes I could see their wives weep quietly without complaint, sorrow dwelled in their eyes. They haunted me -all of them-they just won't let me live in peace, the remainder of my sad life any way. The pain was so numbing that after a while I was impervious to it. I developed a new taste for it; I relished every twinge, every sting as I concentrated on it, effectively blocking the rest of the world. When I fell asleep, I do not know neither do I know when I was awake. August 24th 1940, was indeed a very bad day for the RAF-Royal Air Force. The commander stormed in through the door shutting it behind him with a bang. As if on cue everyone's faces began to drop. ...read more.


I was amazed by how hoarse my voice sounded, I felt as if it were some one else speaking. I spoke not too loud as to break the silence-I enjoyed it, it reminded me of my late grandma's glassware collection and the way she called our attention to it every time we went to London for Thanksgiving. I casually begun the conversation, he replied in a rather raspy, rough voice. I guessed he had been suffering from a disease for the past few days, not that it helped his condition. A sudden surge of pity went through me. I asked him how he ended up in the hospital in his condition. He told me it was long a long story and I probably wouldn't want to hear it. Being as stubborn as I was I insisted and with a sigh he began. His voice shook as he told his account of what he had endured. What I had expected was a tragic tale about how he had lost his wife and children, how his London home had been burnt down. Nevertheless, he proved me wrong. His tale was one of valour and bravery, the kind you find of a mother for her children, of a fisherman for his boat and for a man like him the burning desire to save HIS homeland from the German scoundrels. ...read more.


I took it upon myself to rescue her. I gently put her onto my shoulders and dragged myself out of the room as the air was scarce. I walked out of the motel with the dog following me close behind. For the first time I felt as if everything was going to be alright." A tender expression flitted across his dark features as he spoke and it suddenly disappeared to show what he was now, a broken man. "I was walking north towards the city when a plane passed overhead. It was too late to seek shelter I threw us to the right, a shrapnel landed on my leg mortally injuring me. I was determined so I sneaked towards the farm and into the fields as my energy drained and I felt my muscles being torn apart. I was slipping into the abyss of unconsciousness as the dog barked beside me to warn of a stranger. I was sure I heard Saint Peter call my name. Then the next thing I knew I was in the hospital and my leg was chopped off." He sighed as if it explained his weariness of mind and body. I lowered my voice and asked him of the girl. He looked away and answered, "They told me that she was long dead before I reached the farm." I was sure I hadn't imagined the crystal tear that fell on his thin, bare, white blanket. ...read more.

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