Categories > Original > Drama > Beat of Their Own Drums
Veterans Day Special
0 reviewsIt's been almost ten years since she lost her brother. He wasn't a war hero, but he could've been had he been given the time. Not a songfic.
0Unrated
A/N: I know what you're thinking. 'Veterans Day Special? Who writes that sort of shit?' Well, guess what? I DO! I, like Paige, come from a long line of armed forces members, police officers, ect...so yeah. I really liked writing this one. I hope you thanked a veteran today.
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Twenty-Three: Veterans Day Special
Puppet: Paige Waters
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It's ironic when a policeman gets his license taken away for speeding. It's ironic when a doctor is suddenly diagnosed with cancer. It's ironic when a parent gets so far gone in years that their children have to take care of them.
It's ironic when a soldier dies on the day his fellow fighters are honored and praised for their service.
I shivered in the chilly morning air blowing softly over the well-trimmed grass of Woodland Cemetery, regardless of the warm fleece jacket I'd lethargically put on before leaving. I'd forgotten just how lonely this place was. Stones, looking like lifeless granite flowers jutted up from the dormant grass all around me. No other soul was about and most of the graves were bare, it being far too cold for anyone to want to visit their dearly departed or give them flowers they would never see, but not his.
Buck J. Waters – beloved son, brother, friend and comrade
Born April 2nd
Died November 11th
I couldn't help but wonder if people ever walked by my brother's grave and wondered how old he'd been when his heart stopped beating. He had been twenty-five, but my father had been so heartbroken that he'd died so young that he'd refused to put the years on the headstone, as if not engraving those cold, calculating numbers would somehow erase the fact that there had been so much he didn't get a chance to do.
Yes, to the rest of the world he was painfully young, but to me, that had seemed so old. I was twelve when he died and just my sixteenth birthday had seemed to far away, much less my twenty-fifth. But now I was older, creeping up on my twenty-second birthday, and now I knew just how unfair it was, both to him and our family. He'd always said he'd make my mom and dad proud and he did when he joined the Army, but there were so many other things.
He'd always told Luke that he'd someday come to his varsity football games and cheer on the Waters clan's star quarterback, but he had only been around long enough to see his freshman season. He hadn't gotten a chance to see Luke “Spike” Waters throw in touchdown upon touchdown and help carry the Cougars through a fantastic championship season.
He'd always teased me about my first crush. I remember my eldest brother saying that the guy better be either really nice or tough as nails because if he hurt my feelings, Buck would punch his lungs out. I hadn't been interested in that sort of thing yet and had hated it, but now, I couldn't help but wonder if he would approve of Mac.
Though perhaps, wherever he was now, he didn't mind the fact that he had never gotten a chance to watch his siblings grow up, see his parents grow old, or meet the girl of his dreams. Buck never seemed to complain about anything in life. It seemed odd to imagine him needing anything in the afterlife.
It had just been a cruel chance that my mother, too, had died the same day in the same accident.
I glanced upward at the sky, hoping perhaps to catch a glimpse of the sun, but the drab gray clouds refused to allow me such happiness.
Perhaps I simply have a natural loathing for the anniversary of the death of the two people I looked up to most in the world, but I don't know why they called Veterans Day a holiday. Holidays were supposed to be enjoyable things; days when you laughed with your family and close friends, ate good food and felt a strong sense of security.
Christmas was a holiday. Thanksgiving, just a few weeks from now, was a holiday. Easter was a holiday. New Year's Eve and Day were a holidays. Hell, even Halloween is a better example of a holiday than Veterans Day.
I didn't have anything against the idea, actually. It makes sense to have a day set aside for honoring those who protect and serve us on a daily basis. My dad's side of the family made sure that I knew that I came from a long line of policemen and armed forces members. Both my great-grandfather and my grandfather had served in the United States Navy. My father was a police captain, and his older brother (my uncle) was an agent for the FBI.
My older brother, obviously, had been in the Army.
I'd grown up looking up to those men (whether it was by choice or by intimidation), so I had a natural inclination to respect them. In a country where many folks claimed to believe in peace and hated those who tried to protect it (another ironic thing that I'll probably never understand), having a day specifically for our war heroes, past and present, was validating.
I didn't think of myself as a belligerent person, so I had no desire to argue with those opposed, but that didn't mean I couldn't be relieved or even glad when the mutinous murmurings against our protectors was shushed, even if it was only for one day in the entire year.
No. I had nothing against the day itself. I just didn't like calling it a holiday. It was a horrible misnomer and needed to be changed. To what, I wasn't sure. Just something that didn't make those happy, joyful scenes cross one's mind. That wasn't what it was about.
In some countries it was called Remembrance Day because it was the day set aside to remember those who had fallen in the line of duty. It was solemn. It was serious. It was most certainly not a cause for celebration. The only thing remotely exciting about it was the fact that schools closed and most people got a day off from work.
Again, perhaps I just had a presumption because of the terrible thing that had happened on this day all those years ago. Maybe, had I not have had this gaping wound in my very soul ripped at every November, someone could convince me that it could be something worth celebrating.
I missed him almost everyday since the accident, of course, but most of the time it was simply a dull ache. It didn't demand my utmost attention. It almost was as if it was like a deep scar healing over. Then all of a sudden, wham!
I remember that he's dead and the wound's back again feeling fresher than ever.
He was not a war hero compared to others. He had been gone for only a comparatively short six months and had not been wounded in battle. He hadn't even killed anyone as far as they could tell. But he had served and would've continued to do so. He should've been here.
The soft brushing sound of slow, lumbering footsteps made by a pair of shoes and the grass rubbing together sounded from behind me, gently breaking me away from my silent reverie. I glanced over my shoulder and into the face of an anxious Cormac O'Kane, and though seeing him made the corners of my mouth twitch upward in the beginnings of a smile, I didn't have the heart to try.
“Am I taking too long?” I asked, numbly looking back at the headstone as if entranced by it. He had driven me up here and had wanted to come with me down to Buck's grave, but I'd insisted that he waited in the car. I didn't want him to have to deal with me. I might start crying, then he'd be all sweet and hold me, and then I'd feel bad for making him endure this when he could be somewhere more fun.
That was another problem with this being a so called 'holiday'.
Mac wasn't normally restless like that unless he'd been waiting for an exceptionally long time. I couldn't have been gone for that long though, could I have?
“No.” He answered softly, gingerly taking my hand in one of his and taking his place by my side. His big, tough hand was startlingly warm against my skin, making it tempting to smile again. But once again I couldn't find the strength to squeeze even the smallest of grins.
I couldn't help but want him to go away. “I thought I asked you to let me go by myself.”
“You did. I just thought you might be cold, though.”
His voice was quiet but far from fragile, though I could sense a bit of fear it in all the same. Slowly and tensely, as if he was afraid I may try to snap at him if he moved too quickly, his arm came about my shoulders. His bulk, which he had plenty of, acted as a bit of a windbreaker and shielded me from the breeze.
Had the frigidness of my skin been caused by an outwardly source, that would've fixed it. But I was not cold because of the weather. I was cold because the flame in my soul had died down to only the tiniest flicker and I had lost hope of it returning again.
Of course, I knew in the back of my head that it would. It would take maybe a week or two and I would be feeling a little better. I just needed some time to think, I guess. Time supposedly healed all wounds, anyhow.
An awkward silence hung in the air. I didn't really want to talk and kept my eyes fixed upon the dreary gray stone and he obviously wasn't quite sure what to say, so rather than say anything stupid he wisely kept his mouth shut. Seconds ticked by and I stole a quick glance at him, only to notice that he, too, was studying the marker with a oddly curious look.
“What's the 'J' stand for?” He asked in a low murmur. It was almost as if he was afraid that if he spoke too loudly the spirits of those resting here may stir and angrily seek whoever it was who had disturbed their sleep.
I blinked, so startled by the odd question that the answer leapt to my lips right away. “Justin.”
He nodded slowly as if that answered all his questions, but I could tell that it didn't.
“Look, Paige, I...” he was fumbling for the right words, anyone could see that. He was afraid of saying something that would hurt me worse than I already was. He felt like he needed to walk on eggshells, but there were so many questions shimmering about in those big, gentle dark eyes that he simply could not just leave them all unanswered.
That had been why I'd wanted him to stay in the car.
I could answer anything he asked, but it was fear of myself and how vulnerable I was feeling that made me worried. If I started talking about Buck, the tears would start and that would be the end of it. I didn't want to burden him with my troubles. He had had enough of his own in his life. I knew that better than anyone.
He tightened the grip he had on my shoulders and brought me closer, pleading with me to look him in the eyes. “I know it's hard for you to talk about it, but...” his free hand cupped my chin and tenderly guided my head around to face him, “I'm looking at you right now and I...I see the girl I love, but she looks so different and I don't feel like I know her like I should.”
He didn't. I wasn't myself. I never was this time of year.
“Please,” he begged, “talk to me.”
It was impossible to resist those eyes. It really was. I can't explain what exactly it was about them, but every time he got like this they just softened up and to refuse to give them what they wanted was about as easy as stopping a charging elephant with a marshmallow.
I drew in a deep, heavy sigh. “Where do you want me to start?”
He didn't smile in satisfaction, nor did he smirk triumphantly. He breathed a sigh as well, only his was one of relief rather than defeat, his forehead coming to gently press against my own before he spoke again. “How long ago did he...?”
It sounded like he was afraid to say the word. I almost scoffed at him. Did he think that I hadn't already accepted the fact that my brother was dead? Did he think he was somehow saving me from some great hurt by not using the 'D' word? Just how naïve did he think I was?
Easy, Paige. He's just trying to be sensitive about it.
“Nine years.” I replied stiffly, hoping that if I sounded brave then maybe I could manage to actually convince myself that I was. It was hard to believe that so much time had passed. So much had happened to me in those nine long years, and I almost felt bad for moving on with my life and leaving Buck behind.
“How old was he?”
Ah, there was that so common question. “Twenty-five.”
I could feel his powerful frame shiver slightly in surprise at the answer. “Only a couple years older than us...”
Yes, only four years older than us. He had died far too soon.
“How did it happen?”
Without me meaning them to, vivid photographs of a dark, empty city street with a brand new gold Malibu resting on the side of it flashed into my head. Its front end was completely smashed in, its grill twisted into a hideous grin of sharp metal gleaming murderously with light captured from the streetlight not far off, glass from its shattered windshield scattering the blacktop along with splattered blood still fresh from a fatal wound.
I whimpered involuntarily and squeezed my eyes shut, trying desperately to will the image away. “The other driver was so drunk he didn't even see them...”
The autopsies revealed that my mom and the other man had died instantly on impact, but Buck...oh, Buck...
He'd been alive when the paramedics arrived, but died of blood loss before they could do anything to save him. They'd said he'd been coherent and had even tried to move, telling them they needed to help his mom first, not knowing that she was already dead. Even in his final moments, he'd been thinking about someone other than himself.
I buried my face in Mac's chest, forcefully choking back a sob. It was such a horrible way to die. He'd died in agony while surrounded by people he didn't know, confused and helpless. He didn't deserve to go out like that.
Mac held me tightly to his chest, his fingertips running delicately up and down my backbone in heartfelt attempt to steady my quaking spirit. “Paige, I...I'm so sorry,” he whispered, as if apologizing would somehow bring him back, “I didn't know...”
Suddenly it was if a light switch had suddenly been flicked on inside my head and I abruptly pulled out of his hold. He blinked at me in confusion, but I just shook my head at him. There was another reason why I'd come here. I wanted to give Buck something he'd lost a long time ago.
I pushed my hand into my pocket and produced a real, Army-issued dog tag necklace. It was old and the metal had lost much of its sheen, but it still jingled merrily as I took it out, unaware that its owner was long gone. I looked at it for a long time, reading the impersonal inscription over and over.
Waters
Buck
607-385-241
O-
Catholic
I knelt down in front of the headstone and fondly draped the chain over the top, the tag clinking just above my brother's name. There. Now others could know of his service Son, brother, friend and comrade...that was only scratching the surface of what he had been. He had deserved so much better.
“Thanks, Buck. I love you.”
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A/N: Yeah, to my understanding, that's what Army-issued dog tags look like. First line is the soldier's last name, second is his/her first name, third is their social security number, fourth is their blood type, fifth is their religion. I realize this probably would've meant more if he'd died in battle or something like that, but I think it's important to realize that war isn't the only thing that kills soldiers. They're regular people.
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Twenty-Three: Veterans Day Special
Puppet: Paige Waters
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It's ironic when a policeman gets his license taken away for speeding. It's ironic when a doctor is suddenly diagnosed with cancer. It's ironic when a parent gets so far gone in years that their children have to take care of them.
It's ironic when a soldier dies on the day his fellow fighters are honored and praised for their service.
I shivered in the chilly morning air blowing softly over the well-trimmed grass of Woodland Cemetery, regardless of the warm fleece jacket I'd lethargically put on before leaving. I'd forgotten just how lonely this place was. Stones, looking like lifeless granite flowers jutted up from the dormant grass all around me. No other soul was about and most of the graves were bare, it being far too cold for anyone to want to visit their dearly departed or give them flowers they would never see, but not his.
Buck J. Waters – beloved son, brother, friend and comrade
Born April 2nd
Died November 11th
I couldn't help but wonder if people ever walked by my brother's grave and wondered how old he'd been when his heart stopped beating. He had been twenty-five, but my father had been so heartbroken that he'd died so young that he'd refused to put the years on the headstone, as if not engraving those cold, calculating numbers would somehow erase the fact that there had been so much he didn't get a chance to do.
Yes, to the rest of the world he was painfully young, but to me, that had seemed so old. I was twelve when he died and just my sixteenth birthday had seemed to far away, much less my twenty-fifth. But now I was older, creeping up on my twenty-second birthday, and now I knew just how unfair it was, both to him and our family. He'd always said he'd make my mom and dad proud and he did when he joined the Army, but there were so many other things.
He'd always told Luke that he'd someday come to his varsity football games and cheer on the Waters clan's star quarterback, but he had only been around long enough to see his freshman season. He hadn't gotten a chance to see Luke “Spike” Waters throw in touchdown upon touchdown and help carry the Cougars through a fantastic championship season.
He'd always teased me about my first crush. I remember my eldest brother saying that the guy better be either really nice or tough as nails because if he hurt my feelings, Buck would punch his lungs out. I hadn't been interested in that sort of thing yet and had hated it, but now, I couldn't help but wonder if he would approve of Mac.
Though perhaps, wherever he was now, he didn't mind the fact that he had never gotten a chance to watch his siblings grow up, see his parents grow old, or meet the girl of his dreams. Buck never seemed to complain about anything in life. It seemed odd to imagine him needing anything in the afterlife.
It had just been a cruel chance that my mother, too, had died the same day in the same accident.
I glanced upward at the sky, hoping perhaps to catch a glimpse of the sun, but the drab gray clouds refused to allow me such happiness.
Perhaps I simply have a natural loathing for the anniversary of the death of the two people I looked up to most in the world, but I don't know why they called Veterans Day a holiday. Holidays were supposed to be enjoyable things; days when you laughed with your family and close friends, ate good food and felt a strong sense of security.
Christmas was a holiday. Thanksgiving, just a few weeks from now, was a holiday. Easter was a holiday. New Year's Eve and Day were a holidays. Hell, even Halloween is a better example of a holiday than Veterans Day.
I didn't have anything against the idea, actually. It makes sense to have a day set aside for honoring those who protect and serve us on a daily basis. My dad's side of the family made sure that I knew that I came from a long line of policemen and armed forces members. Both my great-grandfather and my grandfather had served in the United States Navy. My father was a police captain, and his older brother (my uncle) was an agent for the FBI.
My older brother, obviously, had been in the Army.
I'd grown up looking up to those men (whether it was by choice or by intimidation), so I had a natural inclination to respect them. In a country where many folks claimed to believe in peace and hated those who tried to protect it (another ironic thing that I'll probably never understand), having a day specifically for our war heroes, past and present, was validating.
I didn't think of myself as a belligerent person, so I had no desire to argue with those opposed, but that didn't mean I couldn't be relieved or even glad when the mutinous murmurings against our protectors was shushed, even if it was only for one day in the entire year.
No. I had nothing against the day itself. I just didn't like calling it a holiday. It was a horrible misnomer and needed to be changed. To what, I wasn't sure. Just something that didn't make those happy, joyful scenes cross one's mind. That wasn't what it was about.
In some countries it was called Remembrance Day because it was the day set aside to remember those who had fallen in the line of duty. It was solemn. It was serious. It was most certainly not a cause for celebration. The only thing remotely exciting about it was the fact that schools closed and most people got a day off from work.
Again, perhaps I just had a presumption because of the terrible thing that had happened on this day all those years ago. Maybe, had I not have had this gaping wound in my very soul ripped at every November, someone could convince me that it could be something worth celebrating.
I missed him almost everyday since the accident, of course, but most of the time it was simply a dull ache. It didn't demand my utmost attention. It almost was as if it was like a deep scar healing over. Then all of a sudden, wham!
I remember that he's dead and the wound's back again feeling fresher than ever.
He was not a war hero compared to others. He had been gone for only a comparatively short six months and had not been wounded in battle. He hadn't even killed anyone as far as they could tell. But he had served and would've continued to do so. He should've been here.
The soft brushing sound of slow, lumbering footsteps made by a pair of shoes and the grass rubbing together sounded from behind me, gently breaking me away from my silent reverie. I glanced over my shoulder and into the face of an anxious Cormac O'Kane, and though seeing him made the corners of my mouth twitch upward in the beginnings of a smile, I didn't have the heart to try.
“Am I taking too long?” I asked, numbly looking back at the headstone as if entranced by it. He had driven me up here and had wanted to come with me down to Buck's grave, but I'd insisted that he waited in the car. I didn't want him to have to deal with me. I might start crying, then he'd be all sweet and hold me, and then I'd feel bad for making him endure this when he could be somewhere more fun.
That was another problem with this being a so called 'holiday'.
Mac wasn't normally restless like that unless he'd been waiting for an exceptionally long time. I couldn't have been gone for that long though, could I have?
“No.” He answered softly, gingerly taking my hand in one of his and taking his place by my side. His big, tough hand was startlingly warm against my skin, making it tempting to smile again. But once again I couldn't find the strength to squeeze even the smallest of grins.
I couldn't help but want him to go away. “I thought I asked you to let me go by myself.”
“You did. I just thought you might be cold, though.”
His voice was quiet but far from fragile, though I could sense a bit of fear it in all the same. Slowly and tensely, as if he was afraid I may try to snap at him if he moved too quickly, his arm came about my shoulders. His bulk, which he had plenty of, acted as a bit of a windbreaker and shielded me from the breeze.
Had the frigidness of my skin been caused by an outwardly source, that would've fixed it. But I was not cold because of the weather. I was cold because the flame in my soul had died down to only the tiniest flicker and I had lost hope of it returning again.
Of course, I knew in the back of my head that it would. It would take maybe a week or two and I would be feeling a little better. I just needed some time to think, I guess. Time supposedly healed all wounds, anyhow.
An awkward silence hung in the air. I didn't really want to talk and kept my eyes fixed upon the dreary gray stone and he obviously wasn't quite sure what to say, so rather than say anything stupid he wisely kept his mouth shut. Seconds ticked by and I stole a quick glance at him, only to notice that he, too, was studying the marker with a oddly curious look.
“What's the 'J' stand for?” He asked in a low murmur. It was almost as if he was afraid that if he spoke too loudly the spirits of those resting here may stir and angrily seek whoever it was who had disturbed their sleep.
I blinked, so startled by the odd question that the answer leapt to my lips right away. “Justin.”
He nodded slowly as if that answered all his questions, but I could tell that it didn't.
“Look, Paige, I...” he was fumbling for the right words, anyone could see that. He was afraid of saying something that would hurt me worse than I already was. He felt like he needed to walk on eggshells, but there were so many questions shimmering about in those big, gentle dark eyes that he simply could not just leave them all unanswered.
That had been why I'd wanted him to stay in the car.
I could answer anything he asked, but it was fear of myself and how vulnerable I was feeling that made me worried. If I started talking about Buck, the tears would start and that would be the end of it. I didn't want to burden him with my troubles. He had had enough of his own in his life. I knew that better than anyone.
He tightened the grip he had on my shoulders and brought me closer, pleading with me to look him in the eyes. “I know it's hard for you to talk about it, but...” his free hand cupped my chin and tenderly guided my head around to face him, “I'm looking at you right now and I...I see the girl I love, but she looks so different and I don't feel like I know her like I should.”
He didn't. I wasn't myself. I never was this time of year.
“Please,” he begged, “talk to me.”
It was impossible to resist those eyes. It really was. I can't explain what exactly it was about them, but every time he got like this they just softened up and to refuse to give them what they wanted was about as easy as stopping a charging elephant with a marshmallow.
I drew in a deep, heavy sigh. “Where do you want me to start?”
He didn't smile in satisfaction, nor did he smirk triumphantly. He breathed a sigh as well, only his was one of relief rather than defeat, his forehead coming to gently press against my own before he spoke again. “How long ago did he...?”
It sounded like he was afraid to say the word. I almost scoffed at him. Did he think that I hadn't already accepted the fact that my brother was dead? Did he think he was somehow saving me from some great hurt by not using the 'D' word? Just how naïve did he think I was?
Easy, Paige. He's just trying to be sensitive about it.
“Nine years.” I replied stiffly, hoping that if I sounded brave then maybe I could manage to actually convince myself that I was. It was hard to believe that so much time had passed. So much had happened to me in those nine long years, and I almost felt bad for moving on with my life and leaving Buck behind.
“How old was he?”
Ah, there was that so common question. “Twenty-five.”
I could feel his powerful frame shiver slightly in surprise at the answer. “Only a couple years older than us...”
Yes, only four years older than us. He had died far too soon.
“How did it happen?”
Without me meaning them to, vivid photographs of a dark, empty city street with a brand new gold Malibu resting on the side of it flashed into my head. Its front end was completely smashed in, its grill twisted into a hideous grin of sharp metal gleaming murderously with light captured from the streetlight not far off, glass from its shattered windshield scattering the blacktop along with splattered blood still fresh from a fatal wound.
I whimpered involuntarily and squeezed my eyes shut, trying desperately to will the image away. “The other driver was so drunk he didn't even see them...”
The autopsies revealed that my mom and the other man had died instantly on impact, but Buck...oh, Buck...
He'd been alive when the paramedics arrived, but died of blood loss before they could do anything to save him. They'd said he'd been coherent and had even tried to move, telling them they needed to help his mom first, not knowing that she was already dead. Even in his final moments, he'd been thinking about someone other than himself.
I buried my face in Mac's chest, forcefully choking back a sob. It was such a horrible way to die. He'd died in agony while surrounded by people he didn't know, confused and helpless. He didn't deserve to go out like that.
Mac held me tightly to his chest, his fingertips running delicately up and down my backbone in heartfelt attempt to steady my quaking spirit. “Paige, I...I'm so sorry,” he whispered, as if apologizing would somehow bring him back, “I didn't know...”
Suddenly it was if a light switch had suddenly been flicked on inside my head and I abruptly pulled out of his hold. He blinked at me in confusion, but I just shook my head at him. There was another reason why I'd come here. I wanted to give Buck something he'd lost a long time ago.
I pushed my hand into my pocket and produced a real, Army-issued dog tag necklace. It was old and the metal had lost much of its sheen, but it still jingled merrily as I took it out, unaware that its owner was long gone. I looked at it for a long time, reading the impersonal inscription over and over.
Waters
Buck
607-385-241
O-
Catholic
I knelt down in front of the headstone and fondly draped the chain over the top, the tag clinking just above my brother's name. There. Now others could know of his service Son, brother, friend and comrade...that was only scratching the surface of what he had been. He had deserved so much better.
“Thanks, Buck. I love you.”
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A/N: Yeah, to my understanding, that's what Army-issued dog tags look like. First line is the soldier's last name, second is his/her first name, third is their social security number, fourth is their blood type, fifth is their religion. I realize this probably would've meant more if he'd died in battle or something like that, but I think it's important to realize that war isn't the only thing that kills soldiers. They're regular people.
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