The old man peeled off the chunks of bread into smaller pieces and tossed them onto the ground as pigeons, and other assortments of birds flocked towards the crumbs, pecking away at them. This was his usual routine. He would come to the same park bench, sit down, and feed the birds. It was the only way he could cope with his struggles, his life.
Now at the age of sixty-four, he had seen a lot, been through a lot. He had once fought in the Vietnam War where many of his fellow soldiers had been gunned down. He still had vivid images of mangled bodies, and spurts of blood splashing all over. Now forty years later he struggled to cope with the regular aspects of life, the lack of gunshots, the absence of death, no blood. It was like a horrible nightmare that existed only in his mind.
He shook his head quickly and continued the process of feeding the birds. It was the only way to deal with it, the only way to deal with the pain.
He looked around him. It was such a beautiful sight. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, the grass was glowing, the flowers sparkling. It was a perfect day. Yet he felt hollow and sad. As if he was unable to enjoy even the simplest aspects of life. He was at peace, and felt comfortable but he wasn’t happy, he didn’t feel right. He didn’t think he would ever be happy.
The war had wrecked him. He had spent countless nights, countless years, shivering and battling the symptoms of PTSD. The doctors gave him medication, but nothing worked for very long. It always returned. He was unable to get over the memories, the nightmares. They ravaged him over the years.
His PTSD ruined his marriage, resulting in divorce. His kids stopped talking to him. He felt alienated by everything that was happening in his life. But he felt unable to change anything for the better.
He knew everything that happened was his fault. He was always angry, always in pain and always ended up taking it out on them.
Now he did nothing but sit there, on the park bench, a gentle breeze casting around him, momentarily swaying the tree branches. A young couple, their hands intertwined, passed by him talking softly to each other.
He continued to toss bread onto the ground. He now had a large selection of birds spread out beneath him. Pigeons, robins, sparrows, and a few smaller birds that he couldn’t recall.
Finally, he finished the last of his bread and sat back against the bench rails to relax. He suddenly felt tired, overwhelmed by the need to sleep. Before he knew it he had fallen asleep.
The dreams began again immediately. The dream began with a scene of himself seated on the park bench. He was feeding the birds with bread, tossing the pieces towards them gently.
Suddenly, explosions began to ring out around him, and then there were sounds of gunshots blasting around him. He placed his hands over his ears to cut off the sound, but it didn’t work. The sounds continued.
Then one by one, the birds began to explode. Having been hit by bullets, they blew into dust, a few of their feathers flying up in the air as a result.
The bullets continued on and on, one by one until the last bird was gone. He knew what his next. A bullet for himself, for his own death. He waited. In anticipation for the bullet that was to hit him.
Suddenly he woke up. He was sweating, his shirt was soaked, his hands shaking. It was still sunny. It didn’t appear like anything had changed, just that the birds had dispersed away.
“Sir are you ok?” a man asked as he approached him, his face one of concern.
He nodded and shooed the man away and the man, though uncertain, walked away slowly.
As the minutes ticked away, he began to feel better. Finally he was back to normal, the colour returning to his face, his hands ceasing to shake. He was himself again. Or whatever being himself even meant.
Without another thought he got up from the bench and walked away. He would be back tomorrow. He would always be back.
