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Disfigure has a minion!
Jung the Remembrance Dove
Jung the Remembrance Dove
Disfigure
Legacy Name: Disfigure
The
Nightmare SheetaOwner:
yakAge: 13 years, 5 months, 1 week
Born: November 24th, 2010
Adopted: 13 years, 2 weeks, 4 days ago
Adopted: April 15th, 2011
Pet Spotlight Winner
September 26th, 2013
Statistics
- Level: 1
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 10
- Health: 11
- HP: 11/11
- Intelligence: 13
- Books Read: 13
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Date: 10th August, 1961
I don't know how long we've been here now... maybe three years or so? Feels like a darn lifetime. This is the first thing I've written in a long time. Lost the first one, think the guys used it for makeshift cigarettes. I admit I smoked a few. I didn't really care to read all that nonsense anyway. No. Things have changed now.
Honestly, still don't know if that's a good thing or not.
The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of my wife back home. She is waiting patiently for me. Hope mother is looking out for her. She always loved my wife, almost as much as I do, makes me feel better that they have each other while we are stuck in this hell hole. Means that they can be there if anything bad happens to me, chances are high.
Shouldn't really think about the negative, should I? There's no point. I might die in an instant and I don't want my last thought to be "I wish Emily would let us have children". Not the thoughts I want to be taking to the grave with me.
Getting used to the humid weather now. It took a long time but it's not so... sticky, to me any more. The other guys still bitch and whine about it of course. They all look at me like I'm an alien when I say it ain't as bad as they're making out, josh me and say that I'm making it up to look tough. They all just want to go home though, any excuse. Don't blame them. I want to go home, too.
I love you Emily, and I miss you. Please keep praying for me and my men.
Date: 15th August, 1961
Been feeling somewhat lethargic recently. All I can think about is my home. I have this feeling that something bad is going to happen. Not sure why. Must be the war getting to me and my men. They've all been in a weird mood, too. Heat stroke, they said.
We're moving on soon. I think that's what it is. We're scared but we don't want to admit it. I hope this 'something bad' doesn't happen, whatever it may be.
We lost a couple of men recently and I think it's dragging the morale down. The trenches have been boggy recently and it's making life a lot more difficult. The Vietnamese use the jungle to their advantage and although we're learning their tricks, we won't ever be able to use them to our advantage. Tried to tell them that we are gaining knowledge and it will help, and although they all nod in agreement, they all know that it's a lie.
Date: 21st August, 1961
We've been on the move for two days now. Nothing is safe though. The 'nams are everywhere and the more weary and tired we get, the more unable to fight we are. They've been using... Tricks, I suppose, to get into our minds. They make sounds in this endless jungle to confuse us. When we think they're in one direction, they turn out to be in the other. It's tough. The men can't take it. I can't take it.
The trees are so damn green here. It's nothing like when we're back home and all I can see is a concrete jungle with some corn fields. I used to long to see the parks and the trees then. It was a change in scenery. But now... Now I never want to see another damn green space in my life.
Still having nightmares about the something bad. Not eaten in a couple of days, well not properly anyway, and it's taking its toll. My stomach is constantly growling and my mind plays tricks on me out of hunger and fear. Not sure what to do with myself anymore. Can't give into the paranoia, can't give in to the hunger.
All I want to do is go home and hug my wife.
Date: 22nd August, 1961
Been a long time since I've written two days in a row. Actually, think that's the first time. I can't remember the other journal, more important things to worry and think about.
We've got word about a new plan that the Generals have been discussing, they wouldn't divulge those details to us. We look forward to seeing what they come up with. Almost feels like hope? I don't know what it could be, but I hope it ends this war so I can get home to my wife.
I still haven't recieved a letter from her. I hope she's alright. All the other lads got some letters from their ladies, albeit months after they originally sent them. They all have so much going on in their lives now. A couple of babies have been born and named. As much as I don't want to admit it, maybe that's what that feeling was. I don't like the thought of them returning home to be with their children when my wife refuses to do the same for me.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever loved me.
On the move again tomorrow and I really just want this to be over now.
Jung picked up the bloodied and beaten leather-bound book she'd been looking at for some time. It was near a crater where one of the bombs had gone off. There were a few killed and with a lump in her throat, she sent a prayer out to her son, wishing him safety. He hadn't come home for a few days and even though his body wasn't found, well... That didn't mean anything did it? Not now.
Flicking through the pages she couldn't read a single word. All of it was scribbled down in a hurry and all of it was in English. Even though she'd been learning to speak it to make sure she was at least somewhat protected, she didn't have the first clue on how to read it. She couldn't even write her own language. She shook her head, wondering why she'd even tried.
She knew that a soldier had been taken to a doctor nearby. The Americans had made sure that all the doctors in this area would only ever treat the Americans, never the Vietnameset. It was difficult to live in these conditions and on these terms. Some doctors did still risk it all to treat the wounded, but it was slowly becoming more difficult to do that. With patrols going on everywhere, they'd taken over this village. It was relentless.
She put her hand to her face and thought about the nicer times when farming was easy, life was comfortable.
Jung looked at the book again and sighed to herself. For some reason she hoped that the man who'd written down his thoughts in such a hurry would still be alive, but she didn't know why. There was just something about this war... It left her feeling sub-human, but everyone else was probably the same, especially her husband who'd been off fighting for so long.
She yearned to be in his company again, even if it was only one more time.
Moving through the town, Jung saw a line of soldiers waiting to see the doctor. Some were bleeding badly and some were falling asleep on their feet. It had been a long day, but that didn't mean the day was over for the doctor. No, he'd be healing them all night, tending to their wounds and listening to their racist ranting. All the soldiers would ask him the same questions, too, starting with "who do you know in North Vietnam?" and ending with "do you support communism?"
Walking towards the front of the line, Jung peered inside. The doctor was working fast, pulling pieces of shrapnel from a soldier's face. Blood was everywhere, but there was no time to mop it up. He was one man on his own. Some villagers had heard him talk of suicide, or running away. Some even thought that maybe communism would be better than pandering to the Americans and dealing with all their wounded. Word was that some American doctors were being drafted, but they'd yet to arrive.
"Doctor," Jung softly spoke, "would you like me to help?" She looked at the soldier groaning in agony. His face was familiar underneath all the blood and the metal shards. Tapping her fingers to her lips, she tried to remember who he was. The truth was, however, that they all looked the same. Same hair style, same uniform, same everything.
"Yes, yes," the doctor seemed thankful, "please remove the rest of the shrapnel and bandage the wounds." With that, he moved onto the next soldier who looked like he'd been shot.
Jung moved over to the soldier and smiled to him. Picking up the bloodied and slightly rusted instrument, she began pulling the pieces out. He grimaced and swore, but eventually, they were out. As she dressed the wounds, he smiled up at her, a thank you on his lips, but it faded quickly.
"How... you are?" She mumbled in broken English. By the look on his face, it shocked him that someone from this alien country was speaking in a language so familiar to him. To him, it was the first thing that had made him realise that he was alive. A woman's voice, speaking English.
"I'm... fine..." he trailed off and looked her up and down with his eyes, as much as he could with the pain. His head was swimming from the blood loss and the wonder of how this woman had come to speak his mother tongue. When he looked down, he noticed a tattered and bloodied journal next to her.
"Oh, my journal," he mumbled softly, "I was hoping I hadn't lost a second one." With that, his vision began to swim and blacken on the edges. The last thing he saw was a smile on the woman's face, dancing in front of his own.
As Joey slowly recovered, his scars fading from an angry red to a pale pink, he couldn't help but feel a vast respect for the woman who'd helped him that night. Even though he still wasn't healed one hundred percent, and never would be, he didn't let the disfigurement bother him. Some of the men made comments about him looking like a gang member, but he just brushed it off. He was happy that he survived the blast. Grateful the woman had done what she did. Without her help, someone else might have died.
The woman who'd helped him that night lived and breathed in this village. He saw her from time to time walking around, sometimes getting rice from the paddy fields that were left and sometimes talking with the other villagers in that strange mother language of their country. He couldn't help but notice her, she was beautiful in an unconventional way.
As time went on, he decided to introduce himself properly and thank her for helping him that night when he most needed it. He hadn't expected to be helped by these people but he had to keep reminding himself that some of them didn't believe in the communist ideas. Some of them were just like him and wanted democracy for their people. They were the wives, daughters, fathers and sons of people, just like he was. They were not aliens in such a harsh sense of the word, as the other soldiers kept telling him.
When he finally found her on her own, he walked over to her with a warm smile on his face, trying to appear friendly and unthreatening as best as he could. They were somewhat shaded from the people, the trees protecting them in their own little bubble. It was as if he was in the parks of America again, only with nobody around. He suddenly felt much safer than he had done the entire time he'd been here.
"Hello," he mumbled softly, "I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me that night. You saved my life."
"It no problem." A smile played across her lips and for the first time in a long time, Joey felt a kick of something in his stomach. Butterflies? It was like he was a teenager with a crush all over again. He pushed the feelings down, reminded himself harshly of his wife back home and pressed on.
"I'm Joey," he said, "what's your name?"
"My name Jung." Her broken English was good enough for him and he bit at the inside of his mouth, the feeling creeping again. Turning away from him, she continued on with planting seeds that she'd scattered around her. From all the shoots that were blooming, it seemed that she did this often.
"Can I help?" He asked her, leaning down and resting on his knee.
"No," she smiled, "this I do because of my son. I plant in hope he comes back soon." There was a sadness that suddenly engulfed her and her eyes misted over. Two broken people in a broken world, both longing for some normality and a break from all the bad stuff that was always going on around them now. It was chaos and part of them felt it would never be the same again.
As time developed, their relationship grew along with the shoots Jung planted. He healed, she healed. Her son never came home but Joey was there to comfort her and make her feel as if he was gone for a reason, out there alive and breathing, chasing after women and drinking the finest alcohol. He taught her more English, and in return, she taught him how to grow vegetables in soil that had seemingly no hope. They smiled, they laughed and they cried together. It was a tender and loving relationship, despite them being surrounded by war and politics.
"I love you," Joey smiled once, looking at the rolled out beach in front of him. The sounds of the ocean calmed him, made him feel more human. He knew he'd be moving back to America soon and he wanted to make this last. This feeling of being loved so... so fully, it was something he hadn't ever experienced, not even with his wife. They gave as much as they took, treating one another like equals always, depsite their relationship having to remain mostly away from the American soliders that loomed around them. It was forbidden, but it didn't feel forbidden.
"Love you," Jung smiled.
That was something Joey noticed the most about her. Her smile. It was always so warm, so welcoming. When she smiled it felt as if there was no war going on around them. He felt as though he was his old self, happy and friendly, not this hermit that he'd become.
"I don't want to leave."
There was a poignant sadness around them the moment he mumbled those words. He knew he'd never find another Jung. Their souls were connected now. The thought of not seeing her welled up a sickness inside of his stomach, as if he had been on a boat for a few hours on a hot day. The light that sparkled in her eyes dulled, too, but they both knew that these beautiful moments had to come to an end. They weren't meant to be together, despite knowing that they needed to be.
"Let enjoy this time," she smiled to him, reaching around behind her and picking something up in her hands. He loved her hands, so warm and healing. So nurturing.
"What's this?" He smiled. She'd been hiding it for ages now, he could tell by the glimmer of mischief, or was it pride, in her eyes.
"Book", she smiled, "I found it, it yours." Handing him the journal, he looked at the shaky, spider-like writing that scrawled across the pages. So many thoughts and feelings seeped into him the moment he touched the bloodied front cover. It had been over a year since he had seen this. The memories of the boggy trenches, the sickness of seeing green trees, the psychological horror of the moments before he was bombed... It was all overwhelming. But her smile looked towards him, and he grasped her hand gently.
"Thank you," he mumbled through a smile, "thank you so much."
profile credit:helix
I don't know how long we've been here now... maybe three years or so? Feels like a darn lifetime. This is the first thing I've written in a long time. Lost the first one, think the guys used it for makeshift cigarettes. I admit I smoked a few. I didn't really care to read all that nonsense anyway. No. Things have changed now.
Honestly, still don't know if that's a good thing or not.
The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of my wife back home. She is waiting patiently for me. Hope mother is looking out for her. She always loved my wife, almost as much as I do, makes me feel better that they have each other while we are stuck in this hell hole. Means that they can be there if anything bad happens to me, chances are high.
Shouldn't really think about the negative, should I? There's no point. I might die in an instant and I don't want my last thought to be "I wish Emily would let us have children". Not the thoughts I want to be taking to the grave with me.
Getting used to the humid weather now. It took a long time but it's not so... sticky, to me any more. The other guys still bitch and whine about it of course. They all look at me like I'm an alien when I say it ain't as bad as they're making out, josh me and say that I'm making it up to look tough. They all just want to go home though, any excuse. Don't blame them. I want to go home, too.
I love you Emily, and I miss you. Please keep praying for me and my men.
Date: 15th August, 1961
Been feeling somewhat lethargic recently. All I can think about is my home. I have this feeling that something bad is going to happen. Not sure why. Must be the war getting to me and my men. They've all been in a weird mood, too. Heat stroke, they said.
We're moving on soon. I think that's what it is. We're scared but we don't want to admit it. I hope this 'something bad' doesn't happen, whatever it may be.
We lost a couple of men recently and I think it's dragging the morale down. The trenches have been boggy recently and it's making life a lot more difficult. The Vietnamese use the jungle to their advantage and although we're learning their tricks, we won't ever be able to use them to our advantage. Tried to tell them that we are gaining knowledge and it will help, and although they all nod in agreement, they all know that it's a lie.
Date: 21st August, 1961
We've been on the move for two days now. Nothing is safe though. The 'nams are everywhere and the more weary and tired we get, the more unable to fight we are. They've been using... Tricks, I suppose, to get into our minds. They make sounds in this endless jungle to confuse us. When we think they're in one direction, they turn out to be in the other. It's tough. The men can't take it. I can't take it.
The trees are so damn green here. It's nothing like when we're back home and all I can see is a concrete jungle with some corn fields. I used to long to see the parks and the trees then. It was a change in scenery. But now... Now I never want to see another damn green space in my life.
Still having nightmares about the something bad. Not eaten in a couple of days, well not properly anyway, and it's taking its toll. My stomach is constantly growling and my mind plays tricks on me out of hunger and fear. Not sure what to do with myself anymore. Can't give into the paranoia, can't give in to the hunger.
All I want to do is go home and hug my wife.
Date: 22nd August, 1961
Been a long time since I've written two days in a row. Actually, think that's the first time. I can't remember the other journal, more important things to worry and think about.
We've got word about a new plan that the Generals have been discussing, they wouldn't divulge those details to us. We look forward to seeing what they come up with. Almost feels like hope? I don't know what it could be, but I hope it ends this war so I can get home to my wife.
I still haven't recieved a letter from her. I hope she's alright. All the other lads got some letters from their ladies, albeit months after they originally sent them. They all have so much going on in their lives now. A couple of babies have been born and named. As much as I don't want to admit it, maybe that's what that feeling was. I don't like the thought of them returning home to be with their children when my wife refuses to do the same for me.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever loved me.
On the move again tomorrow and I really just want this to be over now.
Jung picked up the bloodied and beaten leather-bound book she'd been looking at for some time. It was near a crater where one of the bombs had gone off. There were a few killed and with a lump in her throat, she sent a prayer out to her son, wishing him safety. He hadn't come home for a few days and even though his body wasn't found, well... That didn't mean anything did it? Not now.
Flicking through the pages she couldn't read a single word. All of it was scribbled down in a hurry and all of it was in English. Even though she'd been learning to speak it to make sure she was at least somewhat protected, she didn't have the first clue on how to read it. She couldn't even write her own language. She shook her head, wondering why she'd even tried.
She knew that a soldier had been taken to a doctor nearby. The Americans had made sure that all the doctors in this area would only ever treat the Americans, never the Vietnameset. It was difficult to live in these conditions and on these terms. Some doctors did still risk it all to treat the wounded, but it was slowly becoming more difficult to do that. With patrols going on everywhere, they'd taken over this village. It was relentless.
She put her hand to her face and thought about the nicer times when farming was easy, life was comfortable.
Jung looked at the book again and sighed to herself. For some reason she hoped that the man who'd written down his thoughts in such a hurry would still be alive, but she didn't know why. There was just something about this war... It left her feeling sub-human, but everyone else was probably the same, especially her husband who'd been off fighting for so long.
She yearned to be in his company again, even if it was only one more time.
Moving through the town, Jung saw a line of soldiers waiting to see the doctor. Some were bleeding badly and some were falling asleep on their feet. It had been a long day, but that didn't mean the day was over for the doctor. No, he'd be healing them all night, tending to their wounds and listening to their racist ranting. All the soldiers would ask him the same questions, too, starting with "who do you know in North Vietnam?" and ending with "do you support communism?"
Walking towards the front of the line, Jung peered inside. The doctor was working fast, pulling pieces of shrapnel from a soldier's face. Blood was everywhere, but there was no time to mop it up. He was one man on his own. Some villagers had heard him talk of suicide, or running away. Some even thought that maybe communism would be better than pandering to the Americans and dealing with all their wounded. Word was that some American doctors were being drafted, but they'd yet to arrive.
"Doctor," Jung softly spoke, "would you like me to help?" She looked at the soldier groaning in agony. His face was familiar underneath all the blood and the metal shards. Tapping her fingers to her lips, she tried to remember who he was. The truth was, however, that they all looked the same. Same hair style, same uniform, same everything.
"Yes, yes," the doctor seemed thankful, "please remove the rest of the shrapnel and bandage the wounds." With that, he moved onto the next soldier who looked like he'd been shot.
Jung moved over to the soldier and smiled to him. Picking up the bloodied and slightly rusted instrument, she began pulling the pieces out. He grimaced and swore, but eventually, they were out. As she dressed the wounds, he smiled up at her, a thank you on his lips, but it faded quickly.
"How... you are?" She mumbled in broken English. By the look on his face, it shocked him that someone from this alien country was speaking in a language so familiar to him. To him, it was the first thing that had made him realise that he was alive. A woman's voice, speaking English.
"I'm... fine..." he trailed off and looked her up and down with his eyes, as much as he could with the pain. His head was swimming from the blood loss and the wonder of how this woman had come to speak his mother tongue. When he looked down, he noticed a tattered and bloodied journal next to her.
"Oh, my journal," he mumbled softly, "I was hoping I hadn't lost a second one." With that, his vision began to swim and blacken on the edges. The last thing he saw was a smile on the woman's face, dancing in front of his own.
As Joey slowly recovered, his scars fading from an angry red to a pale pink, he couldn't help but feel a vast respect for the woman who'd helped him that night. Even though he still wasn't healed one hundred percent, and never would be, he didn't let the disfigurement bother him. Some of the men made comments about him looking like a gang member, but he just brushed it off. He was happy that he survived the blast. Grateful the woman had done what she did. Without her help, someone else might have died.
The woman who'd helped him that night lived and breathed in this village. He saw her from time to time walking around, sometimes getting rice from the paddy fields that were left and sometimes talking with the other villagers in that strange mother language of their country. He couldn't help but notice her, she was beautiful in an unconventional way.
As time went on, he decided to introduce himself properly and thank her for helping him that night when he most needed it. He hadn't expected to be helped by these people but he had to keep reminding himself that some of them didn't believe in the communist ideas. Some of them were just like him and wanted democracy for their people. They were the wives, daughters, fathers and sons of people, just like he was. They were not aliens in such a harsh sense of the word, as the other soldiers kept telling him.
When he finally found her on her own, he walked over to her with a warm smile on his face, trying to appear friendly and unthreatening as best as he could. They were somewhat shaded from the people, the trees protecting them in their own little bubble. It was as if he was in the parks of America again, only with nobody around. He suddenly felt much safer than he had done the entire time he'd been here.
"Hello," he mumbled softly, "I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me that night. You saved my life."
"It no problem." A smile played across her lips and for the first time in a long time, Joey felt a kick of something in his stomach. Butterflies? It was like he was a teenager with a crush all over again. He pushed the feelings down, reminded himself harshly of his wife back home and pressed on.
"I'm Joey," he said, "what's your name?"
"My name Jung." Her broken English was good enough for him and he bit at the inside of his mouth, the feeling creeping again. Turning away from him, she continued on with planting seeds that she'd scattered around her. From all the shoots that were blooming, it seemed that she did this often.
"Can I help?" He asked her, leaning down and resting on his knee.
"No," she smiled, "this I do because of my son. I plant in hope he comes back soon." There was a sadness that suddenly engulfed her and her eyes misted over. Two broken people in a broken world, both longing for some normality and a break from all the bad stuff that was always going on around them now. It was chaos and part of them felt it would never be the same again.
As time developed, their relationship grew along with the shoots Jung planted. He healed, she healed. Her son never came home but Joey was there to comfort her and make her feel as if he was gone for a reason, out there alive and breathing, chasing after women and drinking the finest alcohol. He taught her more English, and in return, she taught him how to grow vegetables in soil that had seemingly no hope. They smiled, they laughed and they cried together. It was a tender and loving relationship, despite them being surrounded by war and politics.
"I love you," Joey smiled once, looking at the rolled out beach in front of him. The sounds of the ocean calmed him, made him feel more human. He knew he'd be moving back to America soon and he wanted to make this last. This feeling of being loved so... so fully, it was something he hadn't ever experienced, not even with his wife. They gave as much as they took, treating one another like equals always, depsite their relationship having to remain mostly away from the American soliders that loomed around them. It was forbidden, but it didn't feel forbidden.
"Love you," Jung smiled.
That was something Joey noticed the most about her. Her smile. It was always so warm, so welcoming. When she smiled it felt as if there was no war going on around them. He felt as though he was his old self, happy and friendly, not this hermit that he'd become.
"I don't want to leave."
There was a poignant sadness around them the moment he mumbled those words. He knew he'd never find another Jung. Their souls were connected now. The thought of not seeing her welled up a sickness inside of his stomach, as if he had been on a boat for a few hours on a hot day. The light that sparkled in her eyes dulled, too, but they both knew that these beautiful moments had to come to an end. They weren't meant to be together, despite knowing that they needed to be.
"Let enjoy this time," she smiled to him, reaching around behind her and picking something up in her hands. He loved her hands, so warm and healing. So nurturing.
"What's this?" He smiled. She'd been hiding it for ages now, he could tell by the glimmer of mischief, or was it pride, in her eyes.
"Book", she smiled, "I found it, it yours." Handing him the journal, he looked at the shaky, spider-like writing that scrawled across the pages. So many thoughts and feelings seeped into him the moment he touched the bloodied front cover. It had been over a year since he had seen this. The memories of the boggy trenches, the sickness of seeing green trees, the psychological horror of the moments before he was bombed... It was all overwhelming. But her smile looked towards him, and he grasped her hand gently.
"Thank you," he mumbled through a smile, "thank you so much."
profile credit:
helix
Pet Treasure
Useless Rusty Knife
Grave Reminder
Unopened Letter from Jules
Remembrance Emblem
American Flag
Poppy Garland
Patriotic Cookie
Fox Shell
Magical Cherry Tree
Haunted Tree Prop
Buckles and Buttons
Tattered Old Book
Tired Plain Satchel
Orange Decorative Medal
Gold Lovely Pendant
Rations Pack
Cheap Fishing Pole
Collecting Seashells for Beginners
Advanced Seashell Collecting
Rugged Survival Kit
Venus Flytrap
Green Decorative Medal
Magical Lemon Tree
Army Jacket
Camouflage Makeup Kit
Butterfish Kelp Roll
Tribal Fisher Long Vine
Treasure Map Piece 4
Blue Decorative Medal
Ocean Cologne
Spindle Shell
Blue Freesia Sprig
Purple Decorative Medal
Steamed Rice
Bone Handled Skinning Knife
Puka Shell Bracelet
Haunted Crystal