The first time the police cars rolled to a stop in front of the Elmore Arms, curtains opened wide, sashes were lifted, an older resident or two even drew up a chair. Those not fortunate enough to have a window opening onto the street, gathered on front stoops. Anxious mothers called in their sons from playing kick ball in the street and lit up the local party lines setting the grist mills of gossip officially into motion.
That was before they knew that Mrs. Birany’s son Brian had been sent back from the war because he wasn’t right in the head. That was before they found out that Brian often sat motionless for days at a time and watched the spider high in the corner, or the water drip from the kitchen faucet, not eating or sleeping or saying a word, and that Mrs. Birany only called the police when she was at her wits end and didn’t know what else to do.
These days, when police cars pull up in the middle of the block, the little girls just go on playing dress-up on the stoops. Their mothers aren’t called away from their soap operas by buzzing party lines. Why even the old men playing dominoes on sidewalk tables outside the cafe don’t stop to look up anymore.
After all, it’s just Mrs. Birany calling after Brian again. Nothing to worry about. Ol’ Brian wouldn’t hurt a fly.
This piece was inspired by the JusJoJan prompt, Dogs of War. It incorporates this weeks prompt, Damage, from Genre Scribes and the three phrasal prompts from the OLWG #47 were the phrases were:
- playing dress-up
- watched the spider high in the corner
- in the middle of the block
Thru Violet's Lentz 
Poor Brian. Great piece of writing.
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Poor Brian indeed. In his lucid moments, I have to wonder how he feels about the society he made the ultimate sacrifice to protect.
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It is so sad when victims of PTSD are often neglected.
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You’ve captured Brian Birany exceedingly well… and other unfortunates like him
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I was hoping to capture the way we have of believing something is alright as long as it’s not a threat to us.
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But it’s true… 🙂
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I think you’ve cracked open the box and allowed us just a tiny peek inside. Do we want to see more?
Well done, thanks.
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I think us not wanting to see pretty much sums this one up, tnkerr.
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They could, of course, go talk to Brian.
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Or do something to help his poor mother cope with her daunting role. But as humans sometimes we just don’t see our part in things that might take effort unless they hurt us first.
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Yes! I thought of the mother, too.
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Generation after damaged generation and still it goes on. Tragic. Another wonderfully sad but powerful piece which brings a world-wide societal problem to the fore. This one’s going to stay with me.
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so easy to turn a blind eye. isn’t it?
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Sadly it is.
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Sounds like my neighborhood whenever an ambulance comes by. Everyone flocks to Facebook and starts gossipping.
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A tale too often untold. Not all end happy, not from most wars…
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So true, Jules.
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You’ve done a wonderful job capturing Brian, his mother, and the neighborhood, Violet. I really feel for poor Brian. Great writing, and thanks for joining in again.
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