Not every wound needs skin to bleed.
The dust rose before the sound. That was the first wrong detail.
Corporal Raymond Nace had seen mortars drop before. You always heard them first, a faint whistling, the second-long whisper of violence on its way. But this time, the sound came after the dust. As if the land had decided to jump before being struck.
He hit the ground hard, shoulder first, rifle still slung across his chest. The heat clawed at his uniform. He smelled cordite, sweat, old grease, and something else, something raw, like open earth or fear that had been buried too long.
Someone shouted his name. Or maybe someone shouted "Down." In that moment, it didn’t matter. Both meant survival.
He crawled toward the ridge, heart hammering in rhythm with distant gunfire. There were bodies in the field, none moving. One of them had lost a boot. Another, half-covered in canvas, looked up at him. But the eyes weren’t scared. They were waiting.
Ray kept moving.
When he reached the ridge, he turned. The smoke curled upward in the shape of a broken question. What hit us? Where did it come from? Why didn’t we see it?
He checked his gear, his limbs, his rifle. No blood. No breaks. But his hand shook.
"Corporal Nace!" someone barked, somewhere behind him. He turned, mouth dry. No one there. Just the wind cutting across sandbags and the low hum of something still coming.
He blinked hard. The heat shimmered. For a second, he thought he saw a child. Just standing there, in the middle of it all. Not crying. Not running. Just looking.
Then everything folded.
The Kind of Wake-Up That Doesn’t Wake You
"Ray. Ray. Wake up. You’re not there. You’re here. It’s okay."
The voice came with hands. Not rough. Firm, practiced. He opened his eyes, but only barely. The ceiling above him was white, slightly cracked. The fan circled like a slow question.
His chest ached. His fists were clenched. The sheets were soaked.
He turned his head. Ava stood there, hand on his shoulder, her face still half-shadowed in the early morning dim.
"It’s alright," she said again. Quieter this time. Not for him, but for the room.
Ray didn’t speak. The words wouldn’t come yet. His throat was tight. His jaw ached from the clench.
He sat up slowly. The fan continued spinning. Somewhere outside, a bird shrieked like it knew something it shouldn’t.
The war had ended eleven years ago.
But it still woke him some mornings, long before the sun dared to.
If you carry that silence too, this military-style dog tag might mean more than most medals ever could.
Where the Bullet Stayed
They said he never got hit. Not physically. His records were clean. No GSW. No shrapnel removal. No fractures. Just the typical field fatigue, muscle strain, and whatever invisible injuries the medics didn’t have forms for.
But something had entered him. Not a bullet. A moment.
It found a place in his chest. Buried itself between beats. And stayed.
He functioned fine, mostly. Had a job, wore a tie, paid bills. Some days he laughed. Some nights he even slept.
But when he walked past a construction site and a generator backfired, he’d flinch so hard his knees nearly gave.
When a child dropped a metal water bottle in the grocery store, he ducked.
When Ava asked him what was wrong, he lied gently. "Just tired."
They all thought war ended when the boots came home. But for some, it just changed address.
What He Never Said Aloud
There were things he never told anyone. Not because he was hiding. But because they wouldn’t sound right in civilian air.
Like the way the sky looked the moment before an ambush. Or how he still avoided certain smells, diesel, vinegar, overripe mangoes.
Or how some nights, he woke with blood in his mouth, but no wound. Just the echo of biting down during a dream.
He once wrote a letter to someone who didn’t exist. A letter that said:
I didn’t get shot. But I carry the hole.
He never mailed it. Never even sealed it. It sat in a drawer next to an old pair of dog tags and a coin someone said would bring him luck. It hadn’t.
Peace, Almost
Ray learned to live with the bullet. Not fear it. Not fight it. Just know it was there, like a slow breath always being drawn.
He watered the plants. Took walks. Learned how to cook chicken three different ways. He smiled at neighbors and remembered to wave back at kids on bikes.
He never said, "I’m fine." But he got better at saying, "I’m okay."
And sometimes, in the quiet between waking and sleep, he’d hear a mortar drop again.
But now, he didn’t dive.
He just breathed.
Because the war didn’t take his body. It just borrowed his silence.
And even if that bullet never landed in flesh, this, this life, was where it stayed.
If you've ever carried what you couldn't name, even a small token like a military-style dog tag from Amazon can become a quiet reminder that survival takes many forms.
Thanks for reading. Written by Jon from ClickWorldDailyI write stories for those who feel things deeply, but quietly.
If this story resonated with you, consider supporting my work. Every small gesture helps keep these words alive.
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If this story resonated with you, consider supporting my work. Every small gesture helps keep these words alive.
✨ Support the next chapter
Carry the Words That Carry You
Stainless steel pendant engraved with:
“Always remember you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”
A gift for someone finding their strength — or a reminder to carry your own.
The Truth Fit Easily in His Pocket
Some truths don’t grow louder. They just wait to be carried.Leaving Earth, One Step at a Time
Not every departure feels like leaving. Some feel like remembering where you came from.The Most Important Woman No One Ever Googled
Presence doesn’t require attention to be real. Some legacies hum quietly in the background.
AFFILIATE DISCLOSURE
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