He's an amputee, a grizzled man with a look of unbridled bitterness.
He sits with a hunch on his back and a chip on his shoulder. Angry at injustice and mad at life. His knee-nub juts out of his shorts. Amputee. Bomb. Mortar. Slice. Cut.
He stares at all passers by and sees phantoms. He sees Jameson in a young lawyer. Chung in a clerk. Davidoff in so many. Help. Death. Silence.
He slowly wipes his face, for lack of tears.
His heart beats, his blood circulates. Beside that, he's been dead for 30 years.
Grey eyes willingly blind because of their last sight. Flash. Light. Jameson.
He rests his back against the wall and holds out his stained hand. Sir. Help. Veteran.
Scared skin that tells tales he wishes to forget. Ideals that didn't include him.
The constant beating in his ears. A commemorative drum.
Blood rushing by, he wills it to stop. Pulse. Push. Stop.
The screams don't leave, that's his orchestra. That is what awaits him.
He doesn't sleep. The sound of all he's taken is unbearable. Tragedy. Screams. Orders.
He feels the heat, still. He still lives those days. He never left.
He knows each of his targets and will never forget. Safe. Mission. Blood.
He remembers the faces, those that still judge and torture him.
His eyelids close. His pulse slows. The drum dies.
He feels his scars being left behind. The change in his hand fall.
Slow darkness creeps over him. He sees it all happening in his mind.
He feels the small hands of children pulling him into the cold. His targets.
Maxus Samuelson died that day in Vietnam.
He was pronounced dead at 3:02:28am March 8th 2003.