The Veteran

He walked down the road in no real direction except for that in which he was headed. The direction of the road was just a circumstance of his travels and did not imply a final destination or predetermined course. He walked as if he were tired and without the knowledge of what would come next. His blue eyes once full of life now had a look of despair and hurt as they scanned the road he walked upon with the little strength he had from his last meal.

Life had once been wonderful to him. At one time, he was well on his way to the American dream. A graduate of high school, a star football player, and a high GPA gave him a wide breadth of opportunities for his future. Had he grasped that chance while he had it, perhaps he would not be walking down this solemn, dark and dreary road. It would be nice to turn back the clock and not fill out those enlistment papers but instead sign up for his first semester at college. Yet, with a bit of the arrogant pride and fearlessness that often accompanies young men he wanted to be a part of the best and so he was.

As his time away from home grew and the more time he spent over there continued; the further detached he became from who he was. While cradling his comrades as they died in his arms and hearing the screams of pain as they called out for their mothers, the machinations of this second human being within him became apparent. While he finished up his tours with pride, he came home to a booing crowd, rotten vegetables thrown at him, and not a single "Thank You." The man who everyone loved had been knocked down to a nothing. He was no longer the prom king, no longer the star football player or valedictorian, he was simply "Baby Killer".

And as the taste of alcohol grew sweeter in his mind it gave him a retreat from the memories as well as the names people called him. It helped him through his tough times and for that he never forgot the friendship that the bottle offered him. Over time, it became harder to hold a job and pay for his friends' companionship. As his resume thickened with job after job that he could no longer handle he was eventually reduced down to working small menial jobs that started late in the day so he could have time to recover from the hangovers.

The scars of the past had since healed. Twenty years ago, and while he never forgot it he learned how to cope with it because of his friend. His friend was always there for him and never left his side. His friend - the bottle. And as the menial jobs became harder to keep so did his sole friendship. Yet he knew that his friendship must continue on for without it he would be nothing.

As things turned worse he began to beg in the streets for food. And he did eat, in the beginning. However, his friend wanted to join in and so he let him. Together they could defeat all of the problems - even hunger. And as the man stayed his nights out in the cold and rain for weeks before finding a place to clean up, he would sometimes reflect back and open up those long since healed wounds. But it would be OK as his friend would be by his side.

And so the man now wanders down the road looking for the next place to stay. Common creature comforts would be a luxury for him at this point. He has not shaved or bathed in weeks. His teeth are all but rotten and his skin is starting to develop sores. As his gait softens with his walk down the road he picks his head up at the sound of a passing car. Maybe they'll stop. Maybe they'll give him a ride to his next destination. These hopes are soon gone as the car passes him by without so much as a tap on the brakes. He was a nobody. An invisible. Just a bum with an alcohol problem.

It wasn't his fault. In the beginning he set out to do what he thought was right. It was his experiences in life and the lack of support that made him turn to his one and only friend. That friend continued to assist him in his self-destruction but it did so in such a polite fashion. And now, as the homeless man walks the streets, all of the shoulda's, woulda's, and coulda's came flooding into his mind. But it's too late for that now and his only destination is one certain to be filled with loneliness; his one friend being the exception.

In the end, the man will find a nice play to lie down and he will not rise again. Another life wasted. Another person many will say is just the result of bad genetics with a pre-disposition to alcohol, or just a man who had no self-control. Yet, the problem was not the alcohol. Surely, the alcohol was a means to an end but the man was just another casualty of war longing for an open heart and person to listen but none was to be found except for his friend - the bottle. His name will not be on a wall commemorating his service, his picture not in a girl's locket around her neck, or on his parent's fireplace. No, he will simply have a small unmarked gravestone to notarize his existence and nothing more.

Just another casualty of war after the "official count" has been tallied up.