a Short Story By S. Vincent Anthony

The television hissed white noise in the dim living room, its glow casting jagged shadows across Elias Carter’s face. He sat rigid on the worn couch, fingers gripping the armrests like they were the edges of a foxhole. Outside, the Indiana night was quiet, save for the occasional hum of a passing car. Inside, Elias’s mind roared with 1968—Hue City, the Tet Offensive, the crack of AK-47s, and the wet screams of men he’d never see laugh again.

He was 78 now, his hair a thinning silver crown, his hands knotted with arthritis. The VA had given him pills, a therapist with a clipboard, and a pamphlet titled “Living with PTSD.” Living. As if this was living—waking at 3 a.m. to the phantom smell of napalm, or flinching at the pop of a neighbor’s firecracker, his heart hammering like he was back in the jungle, ducking VC bullets.

Tonight, the trigger was a news report. A flicker of footage—soldiers in some desert, boots crunching sand, rifles slung low—had sent him spiraling. He’d muted the TV, but the static filled his ears anyway, a ghost of radio chatter from a war long ended. “Bravo Two, this is Delta, we’re taking fire!” The voice wasn’t real, but it clawed at him, sharp as shrapnel.

Elias’s wife, Clara, was upstairs, asleep. She’d stopped asking why he stayed up late, why he kept a loaded .45 in the nightstand. She didn’t know about the dreams—how he saw Private Malone, 19, his chest blown open, begging for his mother. Or Lieutenant Reese, who’d stepped on a mine, his leg a red ruin, laughing hysterically until he bled out. Elias carried them all, their faces etched into his skull, heavier than any rucksack.

He forced himself to stand, joints creaking, and shuffled to the kitchen. The linoleum was cold under his bare feet. He poured black coffee, the bitterness grounding him, tethering him to 2025. The fridge hummed, a steady drone that drowned out the static for a moment. He stared at a photo taped to the door: his grandson, Tommy, 16, in a baseball uniform, grinning wide. Tommy, who’d asked last week, “Grandpa, what was Vietnam like?” Elias had mumbled something about “hot” and changed the subject. How do you tell a kid about the weight of a buddy’s body slung over your shoulder, or the way blood smells when it’s fresh and everywhere?

The coffee trembled in his hand. He set it down, untouched, and moved to the back porch. The night air was crisp, stars piercing the black sky like bullet holes. He sank into a wicker chair, the creak of it echoing a distant mortar. He closed his eyes, trying to see Tommy’s smile, but Malone’s face came instead—pale, eyes wide, mouth moving without sound.

Then, a sound broke through. Footsteps. Soft, hesitant. “Grandpa?” Tommy’s voice, sleepy but sharp with worry. Elias opened his eyes. The boy stood in the doorway, pajamas rumpled, hair a mess.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Elias asked, voice rough.

Tommy shrugged, stepping onto the porch. “Heard you moving around. You okay?”

Elias wanted to lie, to say it was just old age, bad knees. But Tommy’s eyes, clear and searching, pinned him. “Some nights are loud,” he said finally. “Not out here. In here.” He tapped his temple.

Tommy sat on the porch step, hugging his knees. “Like… the war stuff?”

Elias nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Like that.”

They sat in silence, the crickets a soft chorus. Tommy picked at a splinter on the step. “Dad says you don’t talk about it ‘cause it hurts. But… I wanna know. If you wanna tell me.”

Elias’s chest ached, not from the war but from something softer, rawer. He looked at Tommy, saw Clara’s eyes in him, saw a chance to unburden just a fraction of the weight. “Alright,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “But it ain’t pretty, kid.”

He started small—Hue’s streets, the heat, the way fear tasted like copper. Tommy listened, still as stone, as Elias spoke of Malone, of Reese, of nights when the world felt like it was burning. The words came slow, jagged, but they came. And for the first time in years, the static in Elias’s head softened, just a little, as if the ghosts were listening too, finally heard.

By dawn, the porch was bathed in gold. Tommy was asleep, head on Elias’s shoulder. Elias didn’t move, didn’t dare. For the first time in decades, he felt the weight lift, not gone, but shared. The war was still there, would always be there. But so was Tommy. And that was enough for now.

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