Kneeling down, in the middle of the floor, I sat and I drew on a blank piece of paper. Making strokes and lines, the white sheet was slowly becoming my masterpiece. With each press of my pencil into the paper, happiness and joy filled my soul, driving away all cares and fears out of my heart for a moment, feeling nothing but bliss. I felt invincible, as in this crazy world of turmoil and hardships, I could find peace in my drawings. With each drawing, I became more and more pleased with myself, satisfied to see improvement and change. Every drawing ignited a spark in my heart, leaving me hungry for more. Hours would pass by as the world stood still, almost as if it was content with me honing my skills, maybe knowing something that I didn’t that the future held for me.
I kept my work to myself, afraid to show it to the world, for fear that they would tear it apart, like a predator on its prey. That didn’t bother me much, as I was content to keep it to myself anyway. Besides, it was my comfort zone, and nobody else needed to be a part of it. I keep sketching and drawing as these thoughts go about my mind, calming my nerves and allowing to gain better control of myself.
Dirt landed on my drawing, smearing the outside corner with mud, a black blot on my beloved child. Anger coursed through my heart. “What moron has the audacity to interfere with me and my drawings?” I demanded an answer, but quickly figured out as I snapped back to reality again. Sitting in a cratered hole, covered in dirt and blood, as I heard the shrieking sound of mortars rain down above me, digging into the Earth, covering me and my uniform in the dark brown substance. I crawled into a fetal position, clutching my drawing beneath me and sobbed, begging for this nightmare to end as the tears burned into my what once was a masterpiece, turning it into a crumpled mess in my arms.
The shrieks of the missiles slowly came to a close, leaving behind a symphony of moans and squeals from the dying, the only sound in the thick trees around me. Picking myself up from the ground, spitting out rock and sand from my mouth, I look around me to find myself ok. Relief overcame me, but left as soon as I thought about my drawing. What once used to be the face of a woman, my wife, now was ripped in half, like my heart. Sorrow overcame me and I called into the sky, asking God why I was here and how I wish I was dead. Any place was better than being where I was now.
Looking down on my uniform, I saw the Red Cross on my shoulder, making me remember why I was here in the first place. “I chose to be here.” Being a field medic, I realized my duty, and my calling here in Bastogne, France. Grabbing my helmet off the ground and placing it on my head, I heard the shrieking once more, the demons from the sky, once more fall down around us. Instead of cowering and crying in a ditch again, I lifted myself to my knees, then to my feet, and took off running, towards the wails from my brothers and allies, and into the explosions from mortar fire and bullets, splitting open trees and sending shrapnel into the air, in hopes to find my wounded brothers, and help them to see another day. Aided by the strength of the ones back at home and from the peace that I felt from my drawings, i had faith that I too, will be given the chance to sit back and peacefully draw once more.
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