The Holy Soldier

The hospital smell was unmistakable. That hygienic, detergent, impersonal smell. The smell of stagnant hospital air, untouched by the huffing of buzzing life infested with hordes of bacteria. The sickly white of walls and beautify, bed linens and overalls that blinded his shell-shocked eyes, Sephardic eyes merely eighteen years old yet blood-red from battle. The hospitals atmosphere was so tangible that he could smell that unstained whiteness, taste the meticulous hyper-hygiene. Yes, Hadassah Hospital is a fine establishment and he was favorable to be tacking advantage of it. Yet despite his beingness far from the Front, the war never stopped whispering. Its soft manic hissing ebbed in and out, waiting for night time.

For when all is unknown his tortured mind replays again the images of war: A floor strewn and littered with parcels of dead flesh and bones mingled with congealing blood bend the dismembered and undistinguishable ligaments of countless corpses into a quagmire made worsened by the dirt of the battlefield. The demented faces still glare blindly upward in his minds eye. Many faces, always faces: faces innocent with youth, faces morose to the floor, hands clutching a neck or a tear belly; a livid grinning face gaze silently with death.



Another young soldier in right battle lay, crawling painfully on the ground, thrashing in pain until he settles gasping and fumbling with his hands up and take in a sullied neck. He attempts to rise again in hopelessness but his head lolls sideways and he collapses on the floor. The hatful in his jaw glistens and gushes with lifeblood which spills liberally over his white face, bed cover like ink on blotting paper, Screaming and clawing at the pass around he returns to.

But this young man is an unsung hero of Zion. And in the shadowed folds of night...

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