Mask of Innocence

The old carpet felt stiff beneath his slippered feet as he inched his way across it; on the far wall the old grandfather clock ticked in unison with his movement. He eased himself into the aged leather chair behind the desk, sitting back and allowing the odour of well-oiled wood that pervaded the room to wash over. The ticking seemed to intensify. Tick tick tick…

 

…clack clack clack…It echoed through the corridors, the shoes of hundreds of school boys. He felt in his hand the soft leather of his suitcase. Like the beat of a drum, the taunts and shouts rang in his ears, almost as fast as his heartbeat and then the thumping became points of pain on his body as he felt the fists strike him and the hot blood in his mouth. The desire was never there. He wanted revenge, but he could never have…

 

…tick tick tick…He opened his eyes; their misty depths betrayed a slight pain. Could he possibly have known back then? Could he have known what he would become? He say her face now, his only love. In her eyes swam disappointment and how it hurt him. And again he heard the fateful sound of the door closing as she left. Gone forever.

 

Rising from the chair, he moved to pour a glass of whiskey. His medals glinted dully in the poor light. Such pride, he thought, what a noble cause. Tick tick tick…

 

…bang bang bang…Gunshots sounded all around him. He felt the jolt as the helicopter was hit, the warm sand as he jumped and fell. He felt the rough hands of Afghani captors. Close behind him was the panicked breathing of his only surviving comrade as they stumbled through the desert. Prisoners.

 

…tap tap tap…His nurse entered. The regret hit him harder as realised that his thoughts had been interrupted. Once left by himself in his room, he lay back slowly. As he reached over to the bedside lamp, he paused. His gaze drifted around the room; its opulence betrayed his well-off lifestyle. The four-poster bed in which he lay was much too large for him and across the room a gold-rimmed mirror reflected an original Picasso work. Then he saw the photo frame on a side table. His daughter has inherited her smile from him. The only thing, he hoped. No one would want to be like him. Despite the room being crammed with furniture, he felt alone.

 

Switching off the light, he lay back. In the silence, he mentally unmasked himself of his innocence. He laid it on the bedside table, ready to be worn again when the sun rose, but here in the dark he faced his pain without barriers. His mind flitted to his school friends, his wife and daughter. All gone. In his life people came and left, but mostly they left. Here there was no acting, here he could not escape the horrors of his dreams that betrayed the truth so realistically.

 

The man surrendered to the oncoming wave of sleep.

 

The barrel of the gun was cool against his head as he heard his captors repeat the threat. In his hand he felt another gun; it felt strange. Even stranger still was the fact that he was pointing it at his comrade.

 

The trigger moved effortlessly.