Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1998

		Frederick Franklin This piece was written after listening to a late night radio programme about men who fought in Vietnam and have not yet recovered from the horrors of it. Just to Pass the Time The beads of sweat ran down the side of his face. They seemed like tears rolling down his cheeks, both had originated from pain. He drew each breath slowly and cautiously as his eyes scanned the boundaries of the room. He needed to be sure where he was. He felt he had forgotten something and was trying hard to remember what it was. Finally, he gave up and gradually moved towards the edge of the bed, where he remained, sitting with his face buried between the palms of his hands, his mind trapped within an endless torture. He was thinking that he may still be asleep, and that some nightmarish revelation would soon become apparent. It had become difficult for him to define what was real and what was not. There were too many unwanted images intruding in his mind. The pain, fear, suffering, they were with him still. With the odour of death that had permeated his skin, they suffocated him still. During the war he had seen men do unspeakable things, he too had taken part. Some soldiers had indulged with an evil relish in the butchering of men, women and children. Their scream of great pain still echoed in his dreams like a curse that will not die. How he envied those who live their lives each day, worrying only about losing their jobs or paying their mortgages or bringing up their children. They had not endured as much as he had endured. They had not seen death on a scale that he had seen it, their souls were unstained by the sea of blood that stained the land during the war in Vietnam. His spirit was lifted only occasionally by brief moments of clarity. Alone, after dark, thoughts invaded his mind as he twisted and turned in doubt and uncertainty, when he would become gripped by strong feelings of panic and anxiety. He existed only in darkness and torment and often wished he was dead. He had hoped he would find peace during death. Perhaps he was already dead and this was hell. Perhaps there was no hope, no escape for him from madness, and he had been condemned to this place, this mental asylum for the rest of his natural life.