Alex+Sloss+Short+Story

Alex Sloss Ms. Dugan, pd. 8 Creative Writing 1 25 January 2010 Syndrome A white mountaineer pulled up in front of the big two story building, snow covering pretty much everything. Randy’s dad let his son get out and wait on the steps for him while he found a spot, which of course would be difficult. It was an institution not for the people who are just mentally crazy but are suffering from major senility and fear. The reason they were their was because Wes, Randy’s father, had his dad put there a few years ago when he realized he was suffering from an unknown mental illness, which caused him to freak out and at times act like he was in dangerous situations. Randy loved his grandfather, whom took him to baseball games and helped him practice his skills. Randy heard the car door close, and then saw his dad appear from behind a car and walk towards him. Randy turned and went inside considering the below zero temperatures and a gusty wind. The automatic doors parted and Randy entered into a long, white hall with locked doors on the side. Randy looked around, staring blankly into the white hall until interrupted and brought back to reality by a lady sitting mysteriously beside him. “Can I help you, sir?” she asked him, staring at him and peeking above the top of the desk. “Oh, I-I’m just waiting for my dad, we’re here to visit someone.” “Okay, well who are you here to visit? We can sign you guys in and after your dad gets here you’re all set, okay?” “I’m here to visit my Grandpa Charles. I’m Randy Calvin.” “Oh, yes, your grandpa. He’s a very interesting man,” she looked down at a paper and wrote down his name, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose, “And what’s your father’s name?” “Wes Calvin.” She continued by writing down that name in the block next to Randy’s. Just as she finished, Wes walked in and looked to the left. He saw his son patiently waiting there, staring at him with a smile. “Hello, sir, how are you?” the lady was putting the paper in a tan folder that was put back into a metal cabinet afterwards. “I’m fine, thank you. I need to sign in, right?” he walked toward the desk and pulled out a pen from his jeans pocket. “Not needed actually,” her hand was up in the air to signal him to stop, “Your son did it for you. You’re all set to go.” Wes looked at his son and smiled. “Thanks, buddy.” He rubbed his head and then put his hands in his coat pocket. “Thank, you.” “No problem,” she reached over to the side and then pulled out a key, “Here you go.” Wes reached out his hand and took the key. “Let’s go.” “Bye,” Randy waved to the lady. “Bye-bye,” she waved back with a big smile on her face. They entered the white hall and looked at every door. These were numbers one through ten, and they needed room twenty-five. “Dad, this place scares me. I don’t wanna be here anymore.” “Oh come on, son. You want to see grandpa, don’t you?” Randy stared at him. “Of course I do. It’s just; it’s lonely in here. It’s scary.” Wes started to laugh and grabbed Randy’s hand. “Don’t worry, I’m right next to you.” After a long and for Randy, courageous walk, they arrived at room twenty-five. Wes pulled out the key, put it into the lock, and turned. After it clicked, Wes pulled out the key and opened the door. Randy rushed in and jumped onto the bed. “Whoa!” Grandpa Charles yelled, in a happy but yet frightened way. “Hey, grandpa!” Randy yelled in excitement. Wes slowly and gently closed the door and walked over. “Hey dad,” he bent over and gave him a hug. “How you guys doing?” “I’m great now that I get to see you,” Randy smiled. Grandpa Charles just laughed and hugged him. “Me, too. Me, too.” Randy got off of his grandpa and sat down in a chair next to him, along with his dad on the other side. As they were talking, the door crept open and a cart appeared out in the hall. It was probably the nurse ready to give him food and medicine. “Ugh, it’s time for that damn medicine again.” “Hey, dad, please. Watch the language,” Wes nodded towards Randy to give his dad a hint that he meant watch the language because of him. “Medicine time,” the nurse began to pull the cart in. The wheels hit the bump under the door and made a loud thump, which caused Grandpa Charles to jump out of his seat and hide under the bed. “Get to cover! We got some tangos moving in!” he acted as if he had a gun too, and he was looking through the sight. Then he blanked out, not talking, not blinking, and not moving. He was out of this world. Charles hid behind a hill as he heard bullets digging into the ground. His gun was pointing into the air. His good friend crawled over next to him. “Get over here! We need more men!” Charles yelled and waved towards his direction. A group of soldiers ran over to him and lay down behind the hill. Their breath showed in the cool, snowy air. “What we got?” Charles best friend since birth asked him. His name was Lance Burk, a tall, muscular guy. He was strong as an ox and had the heart of a lion, and about ten years ago when they tried to take over a main building in Russia, he suffered a serious leg injury when shot there. He healed after about a year, but his scar still shows in his leg. “We need to capture that building. We get that building, and we’re in good shape. If not, well let’s just say it ain’t good.” A grenade whizzed pass them and landed about fifty feet away. They watched as their men tried to run away but about three men were killed. It was hard to say they died a peaceful death when they were missing an arm or a leg. Putting that behind them, Charles continued to give orders. “Johnson, you see that turret over there?” Johnson carefully and cautiously looked around the corner, seeing the mounted machine gun on the sand bags. “Yea, I see it.” “Okay, I need you to get over there as fast as you can. Dive as soon as you get there cause they know we’re behind here. Reynolds, you cover him and look out for any close attacks or ambushes. The rest of us, we rush into that building and get ready to shoot, because we’re not gonna be able to take it easily. Everyone got it?” “Yes, sir!” they anxiously waited to go. All of them were shaking, and with the snow, they were colder than someone being stuck inside a freezer for a day. Charles could tell he had frostbite on his forearm, but he gave no attention to it. “Go, men, go!” Charles yelled. They stood and did everything that they were told. Johnson made it to the MG, but Reynolds had been shot. Johnson grabbed the machine gun, put his finger on the trigger, and pulled it. No bullets came out, and he lay down behind the sandbags. Either the gun was jammed or it was out of bullets, but neither was good. He took out his transmitter and called to the others in the building. “This is Johnson. MG is out, I repeat, Mg is out!” A minute went by before Charles talked back. “Then you get in this building now. We need you. Run now, Johnson, run now!” Johnson put back his transmitter, which hooked onto his pants, put both hands on his gun, and sighed. He stood up and ran. “Get in here quickly!” yelled Charles who watched him. Johnson ran up with his gun at his side. He was almost there when they heard a sniper bullet be shot off. Everyone ducked down and looked, no one was dead, so Charles looked at Johnson and saw him on his knees, gun dropped, and blood dripping out of his head. “Johnson!” Charles yelled, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He turned around while still lying on the cold, dirty ground. “Alright men, we lost Johnson, just keep doing what your-,” loud screams and footsteps were heard from outside of the building. “Ambush, get back, get back!” Charles backed up into the back of the building. His men started running towards him. Lance was in the back of the group, and right in front of his eyes Charles saw the bayonet rise in the air and strike his back. Lance fell to the ground and one of the Japanese walked up and pulled out the bayonet, blood shooting out and the blade covered with a dark red. Charles shot off his gun rapidly, spraying the whole area. The rest of the men followed along until the Japanese were gone. Charles lay back down on the ground and crawled over to Lance’s lifeless body. A tear ran down his cheek. “Good bye, my good friend,” Charles kissed his hand and then backed away, still crying at this point. “Let’s move!” Once again, they obeyed his orders, and they were also depressed at the death of Lance. Charles looked down and saw Lance’s blood covering his shirt as he followed his men into the smoky, death filled air. The nurses were beside him as they listened to him cry and scream. “It’s my fault. He shouldn’t have died. But he did, and it’s my fault,” he cried on the floor. “Kill me! Kill me!” he no longer felt the need to live. He was now depressed, and he was given a shot to calm him down. They placed him on his soft, white sheet bed. He stared at the ceiling constantly, without even moving. “What’s wrong with him?” Randy asked worrying for his grandpa. “He’s got a serious mental illness. It’s called Post-Dramatic-Stress-Disorder. Just the smallest sound or object, even a person’s actions or features could remind him of when he was in World War 2. It frightens him and brings back bad memories of the war. He could remember blood, death of a friend, injuries, everything.” “Is there any way to help him?” Wes asked. “I’m afraid all we can do is give him shots to keep him calm, but otherwise he is going to suffer.” Everyone cleared the room to let Grandpa Charles be alone. They tried to be careful because they didn’t want this to happen again so suddenly. Randy and his dad were worried, but they could do nothing for him. It was another case of Post-Dramatic-Stress-Disorder. Grandpa Charles had been suffering from this for years and they didn’t even know it. He’s been put through the painful memories. He’s been tortured constantly from memories of the war, visions of blood, his good friend killed in front of him, all the pain, and no way to cure it.