02-04-2010, 05:49 AM
It was going to be another sleepless night as he stared at the ceiling over his head. But swimmers ears were not the reason why he could not sleep. As usual, the bane of him getting a good nights rest was what he was seeing right in front of him. Each night, when the lights would go out, he laid there in the darkness seeing the untold horrors of what war really is. He couldnt remember the last time he was able to fall asleep without help. Not that he never ever slept, but drastic measures were required. One of his common methods was staying up for days at a time to the point that he couldnt hold off the exhaustion anymore. This sometimes would require as many sleepless nights as 6, maybe even 7, before the mind would start to give out. Drastic yet most effective.
Tonight however is only the 3rd night in a row he has not gotten any sleep. Serves him right, he should have known better than to try so soon. He sits up, not being able to stomach the reruns of yesterdays battles anymore. Maybe if he knew something else in his life other than the military life, he might have been able to take this punishment longer. Except with him, his mind is about to snap, and he knows it. His eyes frantically search the room in the dark and still see the silhouettes of fallen BAF soldiers and the people he killed in the line of duty. There was no guilt there, but as they say, war is hell. Each man has his limit of how much war he can take and they must come to terms with that. He yells something, but even he is not quite sure what it was. Later he would realize he must have yelled for the room lights to turn on. Must have been so, the room, like any other room was automated to respond to the occupants voice. The lights now blinding him were proof of that. Sanity is again taking hold as his minds eye eventually catches up and clears its view of the images as well.
Minutes more pass and he feels more himself again. He drops his feet to the floor and he begins to search for his BAF issued slippers with his toes. Several cracks roll down his spine as he stands up and stretches his arms over his head. He then yawns and scratches his chest as he walks over to the mirror chewing something imaginary loudly. With his fingers he pulls and pushes on the skin of his face and examines his stubbles in his own reflection. He knows if he doesnt give all this up soon, its going to be the death of him.
Not more than 45 minutes later, the man is in control of his nerves and he sits in his ships cockpit doing the preflight checklist with a dock crewmember. As far back as both of the two men can remember, they have always done this part of the job together. They have good chemistry from anyone's point of view and Roland would trust no one else to do this with him. Even before the war, if there was such a time. Once the routine grind is over with, its time to head back out, to push his limits till silence takes over again.
Later, when the dock master hears of the news that captain Roland Gilead was not returning to dock for repairs ever again, he suddenly remembered very little about the man. Its better that way, while the war still goes on. No time to mourn lost friends and downed pilots. Hardly any time to get to know anyones first name even, before the war takes them away, it seems. With a few more than too many drinks after the shift, he won't even remembers the man's name anymore. Roland was just another pilot who had flown his last mission, and thats just how it was. He was to be one of those names on some memorial they will make to remember him and others fallen like him in the line of duty. All in good time, after all of the dust settles.
Tonight however is only the 3rd night in a row he has not gotten any sleep. Serves him right, he should have known better than to try so soon. He sits up, not being able to stomach the reruns of yesterdays battles anymore. Maybe if he knew something else in his life other than the military life, he might have been able to take this punishment longer. Except with him, his mind is about to snap, and he knows it. His eyes frantically search the room in the dark and still see the silhouettes of fallen BAF soldiers and the people he killed in the line of duty. There was no guilt there, but as they say, war is hell. Each man has his limit of how much war he can take and they must come to terms with that. He yells something, but even he is not quite sure what it was. Later he would realize he must have yelled for the room lights to turn on. Must have been so, the room, like any other room was automated to respond to the occupants voice. The lights now blinding him were proof of that. Sanity is again taking hold as his minds eye eventually catches up and clears its view of the images as well.
Minutes more pass and he feels more himself again. He drops his feet to the floor and he begins to search for his BAF issued slippers with his toes. Several cracks roll down his spine as he stands up and stretches his arms over his head. He then yawns and scratches his chest as he walks over to the mirror chewing something imaginary loudly. With his fingers he pulls and pushes on the skin of his face and examines his stubbles in his own reflection. He knows if he doesnt give all this up soon, its going to be the death of him.
Not more than 45 minutes later, the man is in control of his nerves and he sits in his ships cockpit doing the preflight checklist with a dock crewmember. As far back as both of the two men can remember, they have always done this part of the job together. They have good chemistry from anyone's point of view and Roland would trust no one else to do this with him. Even before the war, if there was such a time. Once the routine grind is over with, its time to head back out, to push his limits till silence takes over again.
Later, when the dock master hears of the news that captain Roland Gilead was not returning to dock for repairs ever again, he suddenly remembered very little about the man. Its better that way, while the war still goes on. No time to mourn lost friends and downed pilots. Hardly any time to get to know anyones first name even, before the war takes them away, it seems. With a few more than too many drinks after the shift, he won't even remembers the man's name anymore. Roland was just another pilot who had flown his last mission, and thats just how it was. He was to be one of those names on some memorial they will make to remember him and others fallen like him in the line of duty. All in good time, after all of the dust settles.
//(the following is borrowed from 'Filth Pig: By Ministry' and edited to abide by forum rules.)
Well I started out younger at things that people start younger at
And a thousand days and nights of getting overexposed
Then someone asks, "How do you sleep at night?"
With the borrowed dreams from a broken past
You keep runnin' away don't matter how fast or long
You always wind up there
Another thousand pileups in the ugly name of morality
bloody ugly, some creepy guy keeps asking
"How the heck do you sleep at night?"
With a frozen dream and a borrowed hope that died
I keep chasing this tail but the tail gets bigger go figure
A thousand more stories keep the fires and flames alive
So how the heck do I dream at night?
With the memories of a borrowed death, the guilty past
Well I started out younger at things that people start younger at
And a thousand days and nights of getting overexposed
Then someone asks, "How do you sleep at night?"
With the borrowed dreams from a broken past
You keep runnin' away don't matter how fast or long
You always wind up there
Another thousand pileups in the ugly name of morality
bloody ugly, some creepy guy keeps asking
"How the heck do you sleep at night?"
With a frozen dream and a borrowed hope that died
I keep chasing this tail but the tail gets bigger go figure
A thousand more stories keep the fires and flames alive
So how the heck do I dream at night?
With the memories of a borrowed death, the guilty past