#alexau

I feel like PTSD is a very tough subject to include in writing and it makes me really nervous to include so if, for any reason, you can’t read, then that’s okay. If there is anything that is false then please let me know. I’ve researched as much as I could.

This is tweaked, ever so slightly.

He’s rocking his daughter back to sleep when a bin, outside their little cottage, falls over and lands with a thud and an echoing bang upon the pavement. A startled yelp leaving his lips as the empty bottle, used to feed his daughter, hit the floor before his feet, tearing his baby from her snooze with shock. His chest constricting, his arms tightening around his little girl, protectively, as she squeaked from the sudden change and began to cry. His mind beginning to panic, as if emergency signs were flashing behind his skull, as he begged for her to be quiet. As he prayed she’d stop crying. 

“Shut up,” he whispered between clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, “shut up.”

He’s not sure what he was aiming it towards… the cries of his daughter? The consistent sound of gunfire shooting around him? The panic in his brain? The memories of being back in a place he could on dread to go back to? The clouded fog that kept him away fro reality? 

He’s really not sure. 

“Alex, stop!” 

He feels the hands of his wife take his daughter from his arms, his forehead breaking into a sweat as he felt his gut begin to tighten and coil up. He can hear his wife trying to calm their daughter down, humming softly, getting quieter and quieter as he ducked out the room and disappeared down the stairs, almost stumbling over his own feet.

He’s doesn’t know how long he had been hunched over the kitchen counter for - his breathing sporadic and out of rhythm, his chest aching and feeling tight behind his ribs, with one hand clutching the tee hanging down his torso whilst his other gripped the counter, his eyes were wet with tears and his forehead damp with sweat - but the delicate hand of his wife, pressed against the small of his back, tore him away from his bubble. Brought him back to reality as he blinked slowly, catching his breath and taking deep inhales, blowing out the puffed cheeks.

“You’re okay,” she coos, slipping her arms around his waist as she hugged him from behind, “it’s okay. You’re okay, Alex. I promise you. You’re safe.”

“Is the baby okay? Is Elizabeth- she’s okay?”

“She’s fine,” she hums, hitching his tee up with her wrists and stroking his hips softly; something that had always been able to calm him down, “do you want to tell me what happened? Talk to me. It’s best that way, yeah? I can help you.”

He lets out the shakiest of breaths and a whimper bubbles from his lips, eliciting around the room and breaking her heart as she felt his body ripple with wrenching sobs.

“I was back there. Back at war. Back in Dunkirk. Back fightin’ for my freedom to get back here. To be with you and my mum and Gemma and Elizabeth. Back to working in the bakery,” he whispers brokenly, his head ducking down to his chest as a tear dropped from his jawline and landed upon her wrist, “the bang, it was like- like gunfire. Like I was back on the beaches and back on the boats. It was loud. I had to protect her! Save her from the gunshots and the bombs and the fear.”

His words are rushed, his voice gets raspier and deeper, and he feels like he’s elsewhere.

“I can’t go back there. I can’t!”

Say Cheese!

Heres a family picture of my marcapoo family~