Chapter One-Part Two

It was the image of his drunk father banging down the bedroom door to only find another man occupying the bed. --How much can we blame the women? That is not for me to decide. She had not received any true love in years from the old drunk veteran that she could not understand. She needed an outlet, and it leads us to this scene.-- With mumbled curses, the old starving patriot reached into his pocket and pulled out a stiletto. He jumped onto the bed and plunged it repeatedly into the two occupants. After about the the fourth or fifth plunge the screams stopped, but he did not. He plunged the blade into their bodies until there was nothing left of their faces. As the blood began to trickle down to the floor, the father put away the stiletto and walked out of the door, but not before to stop and look at his son and pat his head and give him a truly genuine smile. The boy stood there, until the pool of blood pricked his toes. He then simply turned and walked back to this bed and went back to sleep. It is this image that is forever imprinted on the mind of Chris Davis.

If you asked Chris Davis how he constantly put his life on the line, he would simply tell you that he is lucky. We can deceive our selves and pretend that Chris Davis was fighting for our freedom and our country. When it comes down to it, he was not. He’s fighting for the man on his left, and the man on the right. He did not fight for any big ideals; he fought for survival. Not for the survival of him-self, but for the survival of his brothers. He did not kill to stop the enemy, he killed for protection. Not to protect him-self, but for the protection of the soldiers on his left and right. He did not care if he lived or died, he only cared that he was honorable. If he died protecting what he loved the most, then so be it. If he was left bleeding on an open field, he would be happy to protect what means the most to him.

Chris Davis had seen men snap. When they had seen enough atrocities, they just snapped. Something in their mind broke, there is no medical term for it, but it happened to too many good men. While on leave, he had seen fellow soldiers digging foxholes in their front yards and setting up a perimeter. He had seen soldiers hold down their wives by knife point. He had seen a man calmly take out his pistol and point it to his face and pull the trigger. All within a second. He could remember looking at he partially decapitated man, with a gun loosely held in the limp hand. Every night he would hear the screams of soldiers, not yelling, but screaming. Their souls would truly shriek and let out unheard sounds on unheard frequencies. These screams were not an annoyance, they pierced the minds and hearts of the listeners, adding to the hell that they already lived in. Chris head these screams and would try to ignore them. He never thought that they would have a great effect on them.