Old Wounds

Ronald Goddard

When he opened his eyes, he could see sunlight filtering through a dark web. He was on his back, his left arm numb from the weight of the woman lying on it; her long, black hair the source of his dimmed vision. Sliding the arm she had draped over his chest away, he swept her hair from his eyes, pulled his arm free then swung his legs to the floor. He tried to stand, but had to sit back down and wait until his head stopped spinning and the queasiness had washed over him. One too many gins.

He looked back at the woman. She was totally naked. Her eyes were closed, the lids rimmed in smudge rubbed from the thick layer of mascara she had worn, the lashes resembling fuzzy spider legs. Her legs were splayed to either side of the bed, the dark crest of her pubic hair staining the vortex of her thighs. Her olive skin had paled ivory, the opposite end of the spectrum from her hair; a study in black and white. Had it not been for the blood pooled in her concave stomach, the flecks of it decorating her like glitter, she would have been totally monochromatic.

A butcher knife stood at attention in the center of her sternum.

He looked at her without a shred of emotion. She was an empty vessel, a husk, no more interesting than the shell after the peas have been removed for the pot. They had left a bar in the city of Đồng Xoài, where he had picked her up and come to her small bungalow on the edge of town. The short walk had done nothing to sober them up, a situation further exacerbated by the pint bottle of gin she had pulled from her voluminous handbag midway through their walk. When they reached the door, she extracted her keys, turned her back on him, pressed her buttocks firmly into his crotch and began a slow, circular grind, which - although he was thoroughly besotted - made his extremities stand up and take notice. She unlocked the door and he held her shoulders to keep her in position. Giggling, she pulled away and dragging him past the minuscule front room, they fell on the covers of her double bed.

The room was little more than a closet, the bed commanding most of the space; the floor carpeted with dirty underwear, skirts and pants. The fetid odor of unwashed body sullenly hung in the air. He paid no heed to the squalor. Sucking at her mouth and neck, pausing only while she pulled his shirt over his head, his hands groped for flesh. She had undone his pants and was seeking inside his shorts. Shaking his butt to relieve himself of his pants, he shucked her blouse then proceeded to unclasp her bra. When both were nearly naked, he still wore his socks, they began to copulate violently.

After he was temporarily sated, he got up and padded across the room in search of his pants, which he’d kicked across the room in his haste, for a cigarette. Suddenly, she began to giggle. The sound escalated to a laugh, then a guffaw.

‘What’er you laughin’ at?” he growled.

“It dương vật!” she squawked.

He looked down. His member had drooped and sagged, resembling an empty sausage casing.

“What did you say?” he yelled.

“Your little peenie!” She was giggling behind her hand.

’Shut-up!” He yelled.

“Những vớ!” she trilled, then translated, “Your socks!”

“Shut-up, you bitch!!”

Her giggle danced around the room.

Angrily glancing into the tiny kitchen, he saw a large butcher knife glinting among the dirty dishes. He grabbed it and rushed back to the room. Thrusting the blade deep into her stomach, he pulled it upward, toward her sternum, and then pushed down. Blood sprayed him, her, walls and ceiling. Her eyes flew open, she fell back on the bed, and her mouth formed a surprised “O”, but she didn’t utter a sound. He pushed so intensely; the blade went through, severed her spine then stuck in the mattress. She slowly closed her mouth but her eyes were open, startled that she was dead. Then, they slid shut like the curtain going down at the end of a play. Her hands had closed on the knife hilt.

He staggered to the opposite side of the bed where he had been before and lay down beside her. The motion of his body caused her to release the blade, her hand coming up and flopping over his chest. Moving into her warm body, he pushed his shoulder under her and fell into a drunken sleep.

Now, he was gathering his clothes to depart for camp. He walked into the bathroom and rinsed the blood from his face, arms and upper body, using a pair of panties hanging on a suspended clothesline to dry himself. Walking back into the room, he collected his clothes as he stepped over hers. Gingerly sliding into his shorts, he shook a cigarette from the partially crushed pack nestled in his pants. Matches were found in a change dish on her dresser. He dressed slowly, bumping the ashes from his unfiltered Lucky Strike into the change dish, and staring at her on the bed. Smoke lazily curled around his head, glowing saffron in the rays of the morning. It was 7:45 AM, and he knew if he hurried he would be able to slip back into camp before First Lieutenant Carlson knew he was gone. Buttoning his shirt, he took a final look around and smirked. He’d be in the jungle with his friends by the time she was found.

If she was found.

Ron would be there to greet him. What a pal! What a buddy! Close enough in looks to be brothers; both resembled Paul Newman, tall and rangy. Their thick hair was the same light brown, with slight waving, and their eyes were the same deep blue, the color of tanzanite. Both were boyishly handsome and had a look of innocence which, when they smiled, was attractive to many women. Their similarities were only in appearance. Ron was a deeply religious man, truly kind and innocent, and his friend was deeply evil and had lost his innocence many years before. Why they were friends was a mystery, marginally explained by the old cliché – opposites attract.

Few citizens were out on the street that Sunday morning. The air was soggy; a hint of fuel wafting on the breeze, at times almost overpowering. Hopping into his jeep, he navigated the wet fields, hoping he could remember the way back to the camp, deep in the jungle. Sounds of battle assaulted him as he drove deeper into the jungle, but he continued. The fear of battle was outweighed by the fear of Lt. Carlson, so he kept moving, Birds chirped and jumped at the sound of the engine, fluttering skyward in surprise and fear. He focused on a solitary red and brown bird in his path, quickly realizing that it was not a bird, but a human hand. Looking up, he saw smoke and then heard the cries of death. He killed the engine on the vehicle and listened to the gunfire overriding the screams. Falling to the ground, he crawled through the grass to look through the trees at the fighting. He could see that the Vietcong outnumbered his troop; slashing, shooting and killing the Americans with what appeared to be happiness. As he watched from the safety of the jungle, his comrades were attacked, one after another. He waited until the enemy had put the entire troop down, started fires in many of the tents and vehicles, then they marched out of the encampment.

His entire company was either dead or dying.

Creeping from cover, he walked through looking at the men, some bloodied and broken beyond recognition, their heads smashed by the boots of the Vietcong. Others had died from bullet wounds or bayonet thrusts. He had made it nearly to his tent, when a grenade thrown by the retreating enemy, exploded to his left. The concussion knocked him off of his feet, and when he dazedly looked down, he saw a five-inch rip in his left arm. Blood streamed from the wound and he knew he needed to staunch the flow. Clutching his arm and pinning it to his side, he stumbled to the medic’s tent, pushed in and made his way to a first aid box that was laying open on the floor. He got the gauze, and using his teeth to pull, wrapped it around his arm at the top, tightened it, and formed a tourniquet. When the blood slowed, he wiped to see how bad the wound really was. It was deep trench near his elbow and shallow near his shoulder, as though the shrapnel had hit his lower arm then traveled up and out. He also had one small wound on his left cheek, but luckily, that was all. He was amazed that he had not sustained any more damage. He cleaned his arm then clumsily wrapped gauze from his elbow to the tourniquet at his shoulder, pulling it tight to close the wound. Satisfied that he would live, he left the tent.

“Help me,” a man whimpered, and he squinted through the smoke and saw that the man’s entire left side from the waist down was a bloody puddle of gore and gristle. It was Lt. Carlson. He jerked away and began to search for Ron. Ron was finally found, lying on his back in a small patch of grass. His face was a puttied mass of gore, nearly unrecognizable. One lock of his hair curled over the remainder of his left eye as though offering protection.

“Ron!” He whispered. He cradled his friend’s bloodied head, and surprisingly, he felt near tears.

Then a thought hit him. No one else was alive. Ron was dead. The woman was dead. He smiled.

Looking at Ron, he removed his friend’s dog tags. Swiping his own tags from his neck, he placed them around Ron’s. Gently laying his friend back down on the blood soaked grass; he jumped to his feet and ran to their tent. Smoke forced him to reach into his pocket to find his penlight. He flicked it on and looked down through the dim light with the aid of the thin, pointing beam, and stumbled to the sleeping quarters. His luck was holding since everyone in the tent was dead, so picking his way through the bodies on the floor, he reached his bunk that was next to Ron’s. He reached into his shaving kit and grabbed the money he’d won in a poker game two nights before, reached under Ron’s pillow and pulled out the worn and well-read bible his friend had cherished. Opening it to II Kings 4, he looked at the money Ron’s only relative, blind, old Aunt Judith, had sent him, ostensibly to buy her a trinket. It was $100.00, a good sum, but he knew that Aunt Judith’s 75-year-old fingers held the purse strings to a fortune in Adobe Wells, Colorado. Ron meant the world to her. If he could survive the war and get to Colorado, he would have a new and very good life. Smiling to himself, he scurried out the door, bible clutched in his hands.

Saluting Ron as he passed, he strolled back to his vehicle and continued into his new life.