House of Haunted Memories

Nothing but pain surrounds me here. I am fearful and joyful to be alive in this house of groans and moans. Everything I own has been wrecked, stolen or is dyed red with the soldier’s blood. What used to be a house is now a hospital. What used to be a table is now an operation table. What used to be a dining room, and bedrooms are now recovery rooms filled with men shoulder to shoulder bandaged and often missing limbs. Our courtyard is now a grave yard. The entrance is crowded with packages of moldy food and letters from loving mothers and wives. My servants are nurse assistants. My father, brother and I now stay in father’s bedroom, only leaving to eat what is left of our supply. We dare not leave the house for fear of being shot at by roaming soldiers. The sounds of the wounded are bearable, but the smell is enough to make a healthy young man drop dead on the spot. Lack of air circulation makes the stench seep into the graffiti covered walls. The soldiers are not the only ones who are praying for the civil war to end.