"Whatever may be the state of mind of the patient immediately after the... appalling experiences which finally incapacitate him for service in the firing line, it is true to say that by the time of his arrival in a hospital in England, his reason and his senses are usually not lost but functioning with painful efficiency. His reason tells him quite correctly, and far too often for his personal comfort, that had he not given, or failed to carry out, a particular order, certain disastrous and memory-haunting results might not have happened. It tells him, quite convincingly, that in his present state he is not as other men are. Again, the patient reasons, quite logically, but often from false premises, that since he is showing certain symptoms which he has always been taught to associated with 'madmen,' he is mad too, or on the way to insanity. If nobody is available to receive this man's confidence, to knock away the false foundations of his belief, to bring the whole structure of his nightmare clattering about his ears, and finally, to help him rebuild for himself...—in short, if he is left alone, told to 'cheer up' or unwisely isolated, it may be his reason, rather than the lack of it, which will prove to be his enemy..."

—Grafton E. Smith, Shell Shock and It's Lessons

(http://www.gwpda.org/medical/shshock/ch1.htm) Accessed Feb. 28, 2019

Introduction

I still have the dreams sometimes. Nightmares really. I see them, men, women and children, as if through a mirror, screaming at me. I can't hear them, but I know they're screaming. Such anger, hate, and loss. Sometimes I try and scream back at them, to justify what I had taken from them, but I can't hear myself. A chilling breeze blows, and they keep pointing at the crosses behind them; I look back and there's crosses behind me. Fewer of them, far-far too few to use as a counter argument but is there, I wonder? Is there enough?! The breeze blew harder as the red petals passed.

Then, I was awake. I wasn't sweating, or crying, I just woke up. It's a part of me now, a part buried at Essex. A part of Essex buried within me. A part buried where the wind once blew, and the poppies and death did dance.

The sun was high on April 12th, 1917, and the clouds, birds, like my hope and bravado were long gone. I wiped my brow and stood, just for a moment to catch my breath. The cracks of pickaxes crashing against stone, the incessant barking of officer overseers, and the jangling of shackles filled my ears to the point that the cacophony seemed normal. Daily we broke rock with little to no reward in a hope-eating monotony. Some had the clinging idea that they can just float along and get out of here; others will only find rest in death. I am one of those few.

Sometimes at breaks, a new fish would ask what the great Jack Raven had done, where had my luck ran out? Lately I've been joking that I helped assassinate that Fraz Ferdinand character, but I've spewed lies to all my co-inmates; mostly humorous trash. Sometimes I feel guilty about the lies and flat out lonely with the self-seclusion, but I try to reassure myself that I'm doing them a favor by not letting them befriend a walking dead man. Little do they know that I was the lucky one of my gang and their memory, my gangs' memory, will likely die with mine.

Then suddenly someone slipped the pickaxe from my shoulder saying before he bopped me in my lower back with it,

"Taking a break Mr. Raven?" After forcibly tossing the pickaxe behind him my overseer sneered, "If you didn't have company, I would have to lash you boy."

I stood silent, one of my "co-workers" voiced my thoughts.

"Visitor? Who?"

"Oh God," one burly and tough prisoner thought aloud, "it's Old Sparky."

The overseer barked at them to be silent and stop jumping to conclusions, a sick feeling entered my gut. Is this it? The day I die? I've heard numerous things about the electric chair, I've also failed to sleep sometimes because of the screaming I heard from the chair. We're all a rough bunch on death row, but after the cold quiet cascades down like the silence after a curtain fall of a moving drama none of us can dare to whisper. No bravado, no pride, no man, women, or child would dare to utter a word because it would be like applause in the silence. Unless it was the man's loved ones, then the cries and keening make the nights so much worse.

I looked back at my work routine as they watched me solemnly as I was led away. One even did the sign of the cross before the overseer urged me on with a shove. I took a breath, trying to not do anything rash, if I was going to see the chair there would be more of them. Or, I thought, has my good behavior made them confident that I wouldn't resist? I let the correctional officer guide me and with every second we were going away from the chair, and I didn't see the prison Chaplin Michael, relief dripped into my being. That still didn't prepare me for what was waiting for me.

At my destination waited the warden, Chaplin William Dewberry, a correctional officer and a little brunette woman and her father. My whole body tensed, Ms. Julia Starnhart, as well as Rev. Marcus Starnhart had come to visit. I snorted in sardonic reflection, I've probably committed so many sins that I should be a burning husk of flame in the presence of two holy men. Add to that the fact I almost eloped with Julia and her father is one of those said chaste individuals, then I should be double dead. I glanced at the warden and tried to gather some clues about what was happening from his posture. The warden however was possibly the best cop I have ever met and gave me: nothing. He looked like he didn't want to be here but that what he's always looked like the few times I've ran into him. My overseer went to rejoin the work detail and I stood there, dirty and shackled by my hands and feet in the awkward and silent presence of a preacher's dame that almost made me go clean. Almost.

"Sit down boy," the warden said, breaking the silence, "you're not riding the lightning." Then he added as an afterthought, "Yet."

I sat down uneasily, unable to meet Julia's ethereal face with my undeserving eyes. Both of us didn't speak as the correctional officer put a collection of newspapers down in front of us. Finally, I sighed, deciding to say anything to break the ice.

"You... really pulled some strings to get me out of Eastern State, little bird."

Her father's lip twitched behind her, but she smiled.

"I couldn't get you out soon enough."

"Speaking of Eastern State, Mr. Raven." Chaplain Dewberry piped, his face flush from bad blood sugar, he shifted the papers on the table about in a way that revealed the Umpire, a monthly paper at Eastern State, "Do you know what this is?"

I gave him a look from the corner of my eye, he knew that I recognized the paper, but he was insinuating something deeper.

"Read it Mr. Raven." The Warden cooed, biting his nails and propped up on the wall from boredom.

I didn't need to lean in to read it. After just glancing at the headlines a cold feeling passed over my skin. I looked at Julia and she didn't meet my gaze, I glanced at the men around the room and they didn't look at me either. Why was the air so cold for a moment?

"So? Woodrow Wilson declared war on Germany."

"Jack," Rev. Starnhart said, "I think you understand what we are proposing."

"Raven," Julia said, "this can be a new start."

"Julia-"

"The news I've heard so far has been good and-" she hurriedly started and I interjected decisively,

"Julia!" I sighed and said, "Whatever good news you have heard, is a lie. War is only enjoyable to those who have never experienced it."

"And murder?" The Warden snarked.

"Believe me or not Warden, that was McViller's cup of tea; not mine."

"Well-"

"Warden," Julia said sharp enough to make me snap to attention, "would you please tell Mr. Raven of what we discussed earlier?"

I scratched my chin trying to shake off the de-ja-vu from the tone of her voice. Last time she talked to me like that she hit me over the head with a frying pan. Julia is... an amazing woman, in her left hand she's been petitioning judges, beseeching wardens, and hell, somehow getting her father to consider this mess I am as a suitor. Then in her right hand, she'd beat the crap outta me and make even cold-blooded killers like McViller blush. I swore to him he'd never live that one time down.

A pang of sadness struck me in my stomach, he's dead.

The warden cleared his throat, and started, "Boy, I'd say Providence is givin' you a second chance. I'm gonna be givin' you parole and the Reverend here gave me his word that you're gonna eat dinner, breakfast and then volunteer as fast as a roadrunner struck by lightnin'."

I finally noticed the Texan accent the warden possessed, as he added, "I'll be personally in touch with your parole officers." He leaned down heavily on the table and threatened, "If you raise so much as a fist at 'em I told 'em to shoot ya. You understand me boy?"

"I'd shoot me as well. No misunderstanding warden."

"Or... you could wait for Old Shocky here in a few weeks." He let that sit for a moment and went back to his spot earlier, "And it is in a few weeks. Less than two months to be exact."

Chaplain Dewberry chimed in, he was probably here as another unrelated witness to testify for me, "You are extremely blessed. I've worked under this here warden for decades and this is the greatest show of benevolence since his wife passed."

I sighed, the thought of war invading my mind. The room seemed silent as I thought and pondered. I heard the chain gangs being brought in for lunch and I looked at Julia. Seeing her again reminded me of what I have wanted to do and a smile invaded my face.

I had wanted to just have dinner with her... one more time and if war is the price I must pay...

So be it.