The sounds of violence

It’s almost like a symphony. Nearest, and most irritating, is the slow, heavy drip as the water that seeps through the walls pools and then plops into the floor-sized puddle below. It never stops; never hesitates or misses a beat. Then there are the sudden staccato flashes of shells landing somewhere near; you constantly expect them – your nerves are wired for them – but every time one goes off your heart explodes into a flurry of panic-beats. Hodges provides the melody. In his dreams, he wails constantly, high-pitched, like some tortured soprano; his cries for his mother swoop and whirl through the foul dankness of the air. Then, after a while, you notice anew the bass line, and wonder how it could ever have stopped being at the forefront of your mind. Incessant, determined, making the soles of your feet tingle – that’s the heavy artillery, and you know it’ll still be rumbling on long after you’ve gone to join the heavenly choir. This is my music, now.

I wake, suddenly, knowing something is wrong. I strain my ears against the darkness, and realise. Half the wall has been blown in, and Hodges – well. His singing days are over.