[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 440px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 137%; margin-top: -5px;](i'm so sorry for this late reply)
Humans were flawed - humans were imperfect and unpredictable. But sometimes the things they created were so far from human it had been deemed inhumane. The atomic bomb had been inhumane, as was the American Civil war, the Crusades, the French Revolution - and naturally, all of those were battles of some sort. Of all of them, the World Wars were the greatest and most inhumane of all. Whether it was the senseless murders of young men over the assassination of an arch-duke in the first World War or the Holocaust and murders of six million Jewish people during Hitler's crazed reign, both World War I and II were...unearthly. It was hard to describe if you weren't there...which Alfred was.
Halfway through his story, Hazel noticed the tears that ran down his face came more steadily now; faster, heavier. She made to gently take his hand, locking their fingers together and subtly rubbing her thumb against the back of his hand. She needed to let him talk - to let him put the words in front of him, and watch them. He needed to visualize what he was describing; but more than anything, he needed a tether. Too often, people got lost in their memories. Anxiety, depression, and paranoia were very common after remembering traumatic events. And for Alfred, who undoubtedly suffered from PTSD, it was the least she could do to remember that there was something here he could look forward to.
She did listen to what he was saying, though. She listened to the heartbreak in his voice as he described the battlefield and the after-effects of a fight. Like most other people, it sounded awful and disgusting to her. She remembered reading somewhere that teenagers liked to think themselves invincible, which was why so many signed up for the army, navy, or other branch of the forces. Most of it was teenage pride, hormones, and the audacity to do something, but there were times when it wasn't an option. Hazel thought drafts were a terrible, awful thing - especially when they recruited so young. The fact that Alfred was only nineteen struck a bolt straight through her heart. Alfred must've been such a sweet little kid - he danced and did boxing (get you a man that can do both), and he got ripped away from that. He'd gotten a uniform, a hard hat, metal bullets and a gun, and was told to go kill. It was...ridiculous.
Hazel let his speech hang in the air for a moment, before moving to rest her head against his shoulder. "Being human is bound to bring up insecurities, flaws, and other evils. But wars..." She frowned. "Wars seem so senseless to the people who aren't in them. I'm sure they seemed senseless to other people who were in the war, but...they were indulged in forced combat, while we sat back and watched." Hazel ran her free hand over her thigh, stopping to grip her knee and tap her index finger along the skin. "I really want to say sorry," She told him. "but sorry doesn't seem to cover the vast expanse of what you went through." Hazel wanted to badly to make him feel better. She wanted so badly to do something that helped him. Right now she felt rather helpless, not knowing much about war and treatment for something like this. In truth, Bastille would be doing a better job than her right now.
[size=5pt]© counselor dreamíe[/size]
[/fancypost]