Scream by Aimee Topham

I brushed away my daughter’s concerns as I lowered myself awkwardly into the wheelchair. Today was Sophie’s day. The seven year old skipped along beside me as her mother pushed the chair through the crowds, chattering animatedly about ice-cream, photographs and hundred-foot drops. I didn’t mind at all being the bag and coat moniter for the day, not at all. I was touched that Sophie had even thought to invite her Gramps to her birthday outing. I squinted around at everything as I was wheeled along, curiosity getting the better of my stiff neck. Such huge monstrosities, barely starting up this early in the morning, towered over us. At ninety five, I was too old for a place like this. I had never set foot in a theme park before in my life, and horror stories that I’d heard echoed ominously in my head as we moved along the paths. A carriage whooshed along a suspended track above our heads and fifty voices screamed in terror and excitement. My back stiffened, my nails dug into my palms as my mind hurtled back to the autumn of 1917.

Back to the trenches, watching Oliver cowering against the solid earth with muddy hands pressed tightly to his ears. His eyes were screwed up, tears tracking clear lines down his dirty face as he shook his head in denial. “No, no, no, no, no…” I remember, he kept muttering to himself, desperately trying to convince himself that he couldn’t hear it. I knew better than to try. Oliver was a new boy, just turned seventeen, only arrived a few days ago. I knew better than to hide from the screams. The cries carried on through the night. We never slept the night before going over the top; nerves tightened our stomachs, brave attempts at cheerful singing and last attempts at shared reminiscences of home filled the dark, and it seemed wasteful to spend what few hours we may have remaining in slumber. 

The screams made sure that we survivors didn’t sleep either. They stayed with us for years, echoing through our nightmares and our quiet moments. I remember Oliver, his eyes screwed up, trying to block out the desperate screams of the dying, mutilated friends we’d left behind.

I’d pulled his hands away, made him listen. He’d kept chanting, “No, no, no..” as if it would have made the begging shrieks for mercy and death stop.

“Listen.” I’d said. “Listen, and remember. Remember how they died. When someone talks about the glory of war, think of this moment.” Oliver had shaken his head, trailing mucus and mud as he wiped his nose on his sodden sleeve. The screams mixed with sobs.

As the memory fades, I find myself back in my wheelchair. A young man is holding something cool against my head, and talking calmly to me. I don’t listen to him. I try to push back the memories of those screams as I seek Natalie in the crowd. She moves into my eyeline and my eyes water in relief at the sight of her. My daughter nods reassuringly at me. “It’s alright, Dad.’