Screams. They are all that I can hear. Screams from artillery. Screams from people. Screams from me. There would be screams and then, there would be silence. But another scream would follow. And another. And another. Oh the screams! They never went away.
They never will.
Normandy. The beach where the screams came from. Where I heard them, and where I still hear them. Sometimes they scream alone. Sometimes they scream with me. Sometimes they scream at me. Sometimes, I scream at them.
Now I live in a house. It’s a nice house, a sweet house. Nestled within a nice little neighborhood. There is a little girl who bring me meals. I eat the food and call her ‘ma’am’. She likes that. She’ll laugh and walk away. It makes me feel good.
But it is when I lay my head to rest that I dream. It is the dreams that make the screams back to me. Back to my ears. Back to my mind. I go to bed, and cry myself to sleep. When I sleep, I cry more in my dreams. It is now that I scream. It is now that they scream. We scream together as one. But there are times that I scream alone.
But in my own little yellow house, no one will hear, no one will ever hear my screams. Because the walls are made of rubber.