They, The Wounded

Why were two people, who hurt each others feelings before, can't see each other again? Some took it by months or years to finally bury the hatchet. Others, never. So why can't they? What's taking them apart? What's in between them? Take it to a different point of view:

Let's say the wounded were soldiers from different factions. One was a rebel and the other was from Marines. Between the bombs and bullets and warm bodies around them that scattered like sliced meatballs in your spaghetti, these two soldiers caught to each of their faces. Each were trained to see the difference between an enemy or a friend. And they pulled each of their triggers. The two dropped and held their ground, played dead. Each were at the same moistened soil, same sky, same stench they breathe, held their wound with pressure, and knew they're in a critical condition. Almost fatal. They closed their eyes. Half of their bodies were tucked in a white blanket. They were now in their respective hospitals, in recovery. The pain was still present and there was, of course, the inevitable scar. Should their be a beautiful scar then the soldiers would proudly look at it and would have showed it with all gusto.

For their wounds alone, should an unplanned meeting occur, the scars will open and a bitter rivalry begins. They might even consider revenge. And the pain. Oh the pain, gruesome and immeasurable if such a meeting takes place. As long as the pain persist, the two wounded soldiers of their respective command, vowed never to speak of it and will, at any costs, avoid encounter.

The story of a rebel woman and a man from Marine Corps, wounded-ly concludes here. And they were friends.

Time never heals these kind of wounds. Forgiveness does.