Creative Writing part 3

Our relationship was a whirlwind.

We met at a dance; my friend had made me go. Technically, we weren’t allowed to. It was at a place that only let those who were 21 years or older go in. My friend and I were only 19. The boy vying for her affections gave us fake IDs, and I think he was hoping we would take him with us. We didn’t. I initially felt so wrong for being there illegally, but loosened up once my friend and I started dancing. Someone came up behind me and started dancing with me, keeping perfect time with the rhythm of the music pounding through the room. I didn’t dare turn to look at him until the song ended, but when I did, my heart was already captured. Naturally, he was gorgeous. It didn’t help that he was in a military uniform that had no flaw, his hair perfectly parted to the right. I had always had a “thing” for men in uniforms. We danced together the rest of the night; other guys around the room tried dancing with me, and he wouldn’t let them. I felt butterflies in my stomach every time he told another guy “no.”

When the dance was over, he asked me to walk around with him. We talked about ourselves; our likes, our dislikes. We had several things in common, such as our intense love for the same TV shows and genres of music, and our mutual hatred of pickles. I confessed I was only 19; he didn’t flinch, even though he was much older than me. He told me he just got home from a deployment to Iraq, and I was grateful that he would be home for a while. Conversation flowed easily between the two of us for hours, and the next thing I knew, my parents were calling me at 3:30 AM asking me where I was. He walked me all the way home and up to my doorstep, where he kissed me lightly on the cheek and asked if he could see me the following day. I eagerly accepted and went inside my house. I think we both fell in love that night.

It only took us a month to admit our feelings for one another. Things were going well; we spent all of our free time together, and I quickly introduced him to my parents. They were concerned about his age, but saw how happy I was with him, so they accepted him. Everything was perfect until he got a letter saying he was going back out to Afghanistan in a month. He immediately asked me to marry him, and I agreed. Our wedding was perfect, despite being hastily thrown together. It was small, with close friends and family being the only guests invited. The little white church I had grown up attending was simply and elegantly decorated exactly how I had always imagined it. There were small bunches of purple and white flowers attached to the side of each pew, and my small bouquet looked similar. The joy I felt when the minister pronounced us “husband and wife” would never be surpassed, except for the day he would come home and never have to leave me again. My parents didn’t entirely approve of how quickly our relationship progressed, but were happy for me anyway.

We spent every waking minute together, enjoying each other as husband and wife before he left. We were never out of each other’s sight for more than 30 minutes unless it was absolutely necessary. He held me tightly in his arms every night as we went to sleep, and I felt like nothing could ever harm me.

Dropping him off at the airport was the hardest moment of my life, to that point. Tension filled the car as I drove him there, dressed in his full camouflage outfit. He reached out and grabbed my hand, locking our fingers together, and tears welled up in my eyes. I tightly held on to his hand as he checked his bag; I didn’t want to let him go to Afghanistan so early in our marriage. We got as close to the “ticketed passengers only beyond this point” sign as we could before a security guard got a cautious look in her eyes. He pulled me into his strong arms as the tears began pouring down my face. He whispered his love and devotion for me over and over and continued to squeeze me a little tighter; he didn’t want to let me go. He squeezed me one last time, saying it was time for him to go. One last kiss was shared between us before he left, and I didn’t care if anyone thought it wasn’t chaste. I felt little fissures developing in my heart as I watched him walk through the security checkpoint. He was constantly looking back at me and trying to smile as the line slowly moved forward, but we both knew we wouldn’t be truly smiling until he came home. I knew that we would give bystanders and onlookers a happier scene when I would be able to run into his arms at the baggage claim one year from that day. The tears were flowing the entire time he went through security, but sobs interfered the normal buzz and hum of an airport when he turned to look at me after he made it through, blew me a kiss, and held up the sign language sign for “I love you”. I returned the gesture, watched him turn and go to his gate, and then I turned around and left for my car. Looking back on it now, it seems like a piece of cake.

He said this deployment was only for a year, and then his time with the military was up. He said he would come back to me. That all changed when my world came crashing down around me.

I couldn’t get out of bed, but I was expected to today. I just wanted to stay inside our—no, my house, to feel him around me. But I didn’t want the reminder of him either. Sometimes I could still feel him wrap his arms around me in his sleep. Sometimes I could hear him yelling from the kitchen. I had taken down all of the pictures from our wedding, unable to see the happiness on our faces when I was now permanently distraught. Perhaps one day down the road I could dig them out of the box gathering dust in our—no, my attic. I couldn’t eat anything; I didn’t even remember the last time I did eat. I think my mom made me choke down some cereal yesterday, and it tasted like cardboard and felt like I was swallowing nails. I knew that I was losing weight every day, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything anymore.

I mustered all of the dwindling energy I had and sat up in my bed, and decided that if I didn’t get ready now, someone would come make me. I didn’t want that. I didn’t bother putting makeup on; I knew I would just cry it all off by the time the service began. I put my hair up in a twist, securing it everywhere with pins and hairspray. I had requested that none of the “guests” wear black, since he had once said in passing that he wouldn’t have wanted people to mourn him. I ignored his wishes and dressed in all black: black dress, black tights, black heels, black gloves, black heart, black soul. I even found a black hat with a veil attached to it.

I felt queasy when I looked at myself in the mirror, and barely made it to the bathroom before the acid in my stomach made its presence. This had been happening for the past two weeks now, and I knew the reason why. No one else did. My mom said I needed to go to the doctor, and I think she knows why I’ve been so sick. I can’t get myself farther than the front door without bursting into tears, so I was going to have to suffer through this illness on top of everything else.

Deciding I looked as best as I could for the occasion, I made my way down the stairs, and I could hear whispers of “they moved too fast” and “she knew what she was getting into when she married him.” Everyone eerily went silent when I entered the living room. Every eye in the room was on me, concern and judgment written all over their faces. My mom rushed over to me, enveloping me in her arms. Everyone was ready to go, and I was ushered—through the back door—to the black limousine waiting for me.

As suspected, I cried when I got to the little white church I had grown up attending. I couldn’t bear to go into the room where the casket was on display. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I couldn’t look at his parents, whom I barely knew. I sat alone in the pew designated for me and my family and his. It was all I could do not to let the tears spill over onto my cheeks; I was constantly blinking them back. Soon the room filled with people; his family and friends. Most of them I didn’t know; I had only briefly met a handful of them at our wedding almost three months prior. Everyone else was a stranger to me. Some came up and offered their condolences to me, though I didn’t want them. I didn’t want the fake “I’m sorry for your loss” and “It will get better as time goes on” messages that everyone shared.

I soon felt my mother’s arms wrap around me, and I let the tears spill over. She held me tightly as I watched the casket being rolled into the room by the funeral home people. She held me and gently rocked me throughout the entire service, which was torture. I had to get up in front of his friends and family to give his eulogy since I was his next of kin. If I could have changed it, I would have had his mom give it; I got most of the information about him from her. I could barely get through the speech, and I’m sure everyone couldn’t understand what I was saying. Then it was time for the congregation to move to the cemetery. I was ushered back into the limousine, which followed the hearse. On the way to the cemetery, I allowed my thoughts to run rampant, and remembered the day my world ended.

Pregnant. I stared at the word on the stick as if it was an omen. I couldn’t be pregnant. How could I be pregnant? Why did this happen to me? He had just left only a month ago. We had only been married for a few weeks when he did. He wasn’t even going to be here for the birth; he would have three more months of service before he would be able to meet his son or daughter. I wasn’t even sure how to tell him; would it be through a letter, or would I tell him on our next Skype chat, whenever that was going to be?

The doorbell rang as I continued to stare at the ominous word, and I was still trying to process it all when I opened the door to a man dressed in a full military uniform. Already I knew something was wrong.

He called me by name in a question, and I confirmed that was who I was. He then handed me a letter. I opened it and couldn’t believe what I was reading. The words “Sargeant Roberts”, “killed”, and “line of duty” were the only words I saw before my breathing turned erratic, my eyes filled with tears, and I began crying uncontrollably. The officer hugged me, rather awkwardly, and offered his condolences. He said my husband’s body would be back in the country within the next month, and I could begin planning the services. He then handed me a letter with the title “Things to consider for a military funeral” at the top. The officer left then, leaving me alone to my thoughts. Ten minutes ago I found out I was pregnant, and now I was a military widow with a child I didn’t entirely want anymore.

My mother shook me out of my memories. It was time to go to the grave, and I was the only one who hadn’t left the car yet. I looked out my window, only to see everyone at the tent staring at the car, wondering if I would emerge. She handed me a tissue, and I wiped away the current tears on my face. She escorted me to my chair, where I would have to face a full military production.

I hated the whole thing. The casket was brought to the platform with the sound of bagpipes playing somewhere in the distance. It was placed directly in front of me. The military men fired off final shots from their rifles, and it felt like they were shooting my black heart and black soul. Two men approached both ends of the casket and began folding up the flag that was placed above it. With each movement of the flag, I said my goodbyes.

Goodbye, my love. Fold.

Goodbye, father of my unborn child. Fold.

Goodbye to the best thing that ever happened to me. Fold.

Goodbye to my heart. Fold.

The folding was complete, and I dreaded the next part. Everything inside me stopped as I watched the soldier tuck the final piece of the flag into the triangle and slowly walk over to me. Tears filled my eyes; I couldn’t see anything around me except for the silhouette of the soldier approaching me. My tears spilled over onto my cheeks as he presented the flag to me, as if I was supposed to accept it and move on with my life. The sound of my violent sobs filled the tent and surrounding area as I placed my hands on the flag, one of the only things I had left of him, and accepted the presentation of the flag. I knew I would get the flag framed and hang it somewhere in the house, but not for a long time. As I placed the flag in my lap, the bagpipes began playing the song they placed as the casket was brought in, and the service was over.

I was officially a widow, soon to have a fatherless child.