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Midsummer Night Monologue

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When you sleep – if you sleep – you sleep by candlelight.
You hate the smell of every candle you’ve ever lit. It can be the typical ‘clean cotton’ or ‘pumpkin’; it can be the ambiguous ‘midsummer’s night’ or ‘home sweet home’, either way to you it smells crude and mocking, a cheap imitation of what it claims to be. You hate the concept of them being on fire, too, because however much you try to link it to fond memories, like huddling around the fireplace at home on cold winter nights, you can’t still the uneasiness in the pit of your stomach.
It goes against everything you have ever thought, ever learnt, ever known, to leave something which can tear through your house and leave it as an empty, crispy shell, idly flickering as you sleep. …show more content…

You don’t dream of fields of pastel flowers, sparking turquoise seas licking at sand, or of being in a lover’s arms. When you close your eyes, you see one thing, and one thing alone – you see war.
It can be at a base, or a trench, or a thick dark forest, with rain or snow or sunshine, but the gunfire, the blood, and the smell of death remind you, bluntly, that its war all the same.
Sometimes, your dreams are memories, the kind you spend every waking hour repressing, because you’ve seen what happens to people who don’t; seen them crumble and fall apart beneath the pressure of constant grief, seen the empty shells that are left behind. So, you push them back into the deepest, darkest and most hidden parts of their mind. Yet, you find yourself resenting your own mind as they seep through the cracks, unrelenting and unforgiving, to haunt you in your most vulnerable hours.
You’re forced to watch the canvas of the inside of your eyelids come alive with painted memories as you step – unwilling and afraid – back into the war. You’re hauled around in a body that doesn’t feel like your own anymore, forced to relive and repeat every step, every breath, every decision, a thousand times, and a thousand times …show more content…

But soon after, you remember any belief in a kind man in the clouds was left behind when you saw the horrors of war.
Other times, the dreams lull you into a false sense of security, blurring the lines between what is, what was, and what never was. You can start somewhere mundane, somewhere safe. You’re leaning on a counter in your kitchen with a cup of coffee, looking down at a newspaper, while your dog nudges its nose against your exposed calf. But, when you look down, there is no dog, nor are there kitchen floor tiles. There’s mud and matted grass, and a man’s bloodied hand touches your trouser, his lifeless eyes gazing blankly up at you. The kitchen cabinets and walls melt away to a grey sky and a dozen familiar faces.
Then, there’s the worst of all – they’re like memories, see, but they’ve been twisted. Something in the very depths of your mind, your soul, your bones, leeches onto your memories. You miss the target, fail the mission, don’t hear the warning as you step on a landmine, don’t shout the warning as someone else does the same, you don’t save them, don’t save them, don’t

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