A brown letter falls through the front door. I sit and stare at it as I smoke the last of the drugs I spent the last of my money on. Smoke rings pop out of my mouth and I trace my finger over the decision in my hands.
My wounds are inside me. I have no crutch to lean against or wheelchair to be pushed. Instead I have dead boys in my mind and war in my dreams. So I scream in silence and hate the world for existing. I push food into my mouth and sob as I remember dead kids.
Charity comes to my aid as Government officials ignore my pleas. PTSD cripples me, some days the world is good and I smile. Other days I gibber and drool as memories refuse to stay hidden away. I am young and unemployed. I stood in the line.
Today is a good day. Today I have respite from the war, but still I have no money so I shave in cold water and stand tall. I don’t look disabled as I walk down the road. I look healthy and young. But night time will fall and at night time they come...