Homecoming

The sun rose over the sea, knighting each wave with a sparkling crown. On a lush green hill looking over the wide expanse of ocean, David Miller stood alone, letting the wistful breeze envelope and curl around him. This was a special place from his youth. A place where he played, either alone or with friends, chasing butterflies and basking in the warmth of happiness. This was his safe place. His haven. A small world filled with only joy.

Today, the hill seemed cold. A place of isolation.

Miller had just returned home. He had stepped off the train only one hour before, still in his uniform, kitbag in hand. When stepping out of the carriage, he kept his head down, walking deliberately through the clouds of white steam, doing his best to avoid the crowds - the children, the lovers, the families. He had put the kitbag on his left shoulder, doing his best to hide that side of his face. There was no one there to meet him, which is the way he wanted it. His family, his wife - they didn’t even know he was coming home. He had made it that way. From the station, he had walked straight to the hill. He knew many ways to get there, some paths quieter than others. He took the quietest one he could remember, skirting many fields, cutting through small islands of trees, hopping over babbling streams.

World War Two had been over for three months. An additional three months prior to it ending, he had been undergoing many surgeries, trying to clean up the mess of his face. The first time he had seen the image of himself in a mirror, he cursed the reflection and decided, there and then, not to write home anymore. Other than informing his loved ones that he had survived the war; he decided to tell them nothing else. Letters had come to him with regularity. He read them at first, until the words of pleading love began to upset him, and then he stopped. Anything his family knew of him from that point came from the hospital only. He no longer felt human. He was surviving, but he wasn’t living.

On the top of the hill, the sound of the whispering waves came to him from the sea. He felt tears well up in his eyes, until finally they broke and trickled down his cheeks. He felt the trail of tears on his right cheek dry and tighten his skin, but he could not feel anything on his left. The salty liquid ran over hard scar tissue. He lifted his fingers to the left side, checking that the tears were even really there.

They were.

The realisation made more tears come.

He started to wonder why he had returned home. What could he offer any more? What would his wife see in him now? Would she look upon his face and feel a pang of disgust in her gut? Would she turn away from him, afraid to look?

Then he started to think again about why he came here instead of walking home.

There was a single wooden fence enclosing the hill. Beyond it, a sudden drop to a rocky shore. Right now, the tide was in. He heard the whispers of the waves again. They seemed to be calling him now. Saying his name. Beckoning him over.

Maybe that was the place for him.

He started to walk forward. The kitbag at his side slumped to the ground, welcomed by the grass. Each slow step brought him closer to the fence. He could see wildflowers growing around the fence posts. Beautiful colours that swayed gently in the quickening breeze.

Ten feet away now. The whispers grew louder.

Then the whispers became a word. A word he recognised.

It was his name. And the voice that spoke it was his wife.

He turned toward the voice and saw her there. Strands of her blonde hair drifted on the air around her. The blue of her eyes was as vibrant as the wildflowers. She said his name again, her voice quivering. Someone had recognised him at the station and told her he was home. When he never walked through the door, she knew immediately where he had gone.

She walked over to him. He instinctively turned the left side of his face away from her gaze, but she lifted her hand and placed it on his cheek. The touch of her skin on his made him gasp. Fear made his heartbeat quicken. She gently but firmly pulled his face toward her own. He waited for her face to darken. He waited for her brow to furrow in horror.

She did neither of those things.

She drew him close and kissed his scarred visage. He fell to his knees before her, wrapping his arms around her as she cradled his head in her hands. The sun warmed them both and the grass on the hill rippled like water.

Now, he thought, finally, I’m home.