It is almost 18 years since Charlie left the Police Force. He had joined the building industry, his plan was to escape the re-occurring nightmares that had haunted him, for so long. "The Force," as he called it, was a career choice, which in his younger years seemed tame in comparison to his rough outback upbringing. The Force he was endowed with a good deal of respect.

Though his father had taught him all the skills of survival of the land, both he and his brother learned their skills from slaughtering wild animals to safely using guns.

He had mastered the art of setting traps, shearing sheep, and even catching the evening meal by fishing. He was a thick- skinned man with many morals, yet cloaked in disguise. To those who knew him close, his heart was a big as the sun and his soul as gentle as a summer breeze. Now at 53 years of age, and with many years of drowning his sorrows in a bottle, this glazed blue -eyed man, now rarely used a mirror.

His receding, gray hairline, and the deep furrows in his forehead showed his years of anguish. Two deep vertical almost perfectly straight creases ran from his center cheeks to his outer chin-line, giving the appearance of sculptured cheeks. The lines on his face, reminded him of stress -cracks in the parched outback soil after no rain.

The years, seemingly endless years, raising four children, and having many dogs, six birds, three cats, and an occasional guinea pig. These were his good old memories. His years of dedication to The Force, a lifestyle built on visions of people, places, and situations he would rather forget. He had wallowed in his loneliness since his divorce many years earlier.

He was a shattered shell of a man whose spirit had been broken from the realities of life. Now, all he knows is his physical finesse and vigor are gone, along with his divorce papers. He was now starting to lose touch with reality.

The past memories returned, in the form of nightmares once again. The screams, the blood stained floors, and the walls of buildings, and the gunshot that killed his best mate. Memories that were all still as alive and real in his mind as the day he had experienced them.

Today, he lives alone, in his tiny closed curtain flat is just big enough to house his past. His collection of guns and weapons and his large mossy tank filled with lobsters. He still holds down a job as a bricklayer, but breakfast includes at least four bottles of beer. The weekends seem to break the cold hard reality of his internal feelings of isolation.

The services of a free bus remain useful to Charlie. It brings a chance to socialize and take in that occasionally meal, making up for the lack of food in his refrigerator. It always seems a long walk for a man with busted knees, but then again a thick grassy footpath not too far from home and seems to suffice him. To Charlie, he is still on duty.

Learn more about this author, Peta S. Cameron.
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