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Coward.

by Pamela Pottinger

All his life they had considered him a coward. Apparently he even looked like a coward, whatever that meant, he didn't know, except when he looked in the mirror - blonde curly hair, blue eyes - maybe, maybe his features were girlish, they were certainly regular, he really didn't know. But to say it caused him pain would be an understatement. It was no easy thing to feel the quiet weight of their displeasure, to hear the way his father recounted his brother's many brave deeds.
Hugh climbed the oak today, all the way to the top.
Hugh was magnificent in the field, he gave that horse of his the ride of his life.
The way Hugh stood up and spoke, it was a marvel to see.
To John's way of thinking his brother had the face of a weasel. Mean slitty eyes that weighed and measured any given number of situations, his father's land, his mother's money. He had the measure of John too. Had pushed him up against the greenhouse door, threatened to smash his face through the glass... go on hit me, hit me... he taunted. But John couldn't he had the picture of his mother's distress in his head, the hand held up to the mouth, the wide distraught eyes. He couldn't face that. It was too much. Too much too, when his brother laughed, said, John, John, your wits have gone. Anger grew inside him like a devil, chewing at his insides until he could have done a murder.
When the war came, he was glad. It was a relief. A way to escape his family, his feelings.
And it was as if he'd always known this is how it would be. This is how he would go. Sign on. Join up. Train, march, train, march. Front line. Bang, fire, bang fire. Kill as many of the enemy as you could.
Up and over. Up.....
They gave John a posthumous medal. His father said he'd always known.
His mother said nothing, as she had when he was a child.
His brother said, he'd have gone too if he hadn't had to see to things at home, if it hadn't been for his flat feet.
His father looked at him. He said nothing. Just looked. When he turned away he spat on ground.