The Destroyed Ship

 In the early 1900s, the Santiago De La Marca ship that carried the American army back to their home base, was ripped in the deadly winds and thunder of the storm that struck the sea with rapidness and power. Sadly, it carried most of my colleagues and they all died. That day we were extremely happy and joyful that we got the win against the Nazis. The ship seemed fine, but the weather was horrifying. I remember the violent pushing and swaying of the ship, which threw most of the soldiers off the barricade. I was the only survivor of such an incident and I was very gratified of that. It took me years to actually talk about it with people because it was traumatizing. I could visualize the blood of my mates gushing all over the place, puke on the floor and even the body of my best friend lying dead.

  As the boat was being ripped apart, I saw a smaller boat in the distance and decided to dive for it. It was extremely difficult to get there, but I finally got to my destination and drifted away. I washed ashore and started to seek around for help or anyone who would be around the area. I walked and walked and unexpectedly found a tiny, wooden house that had a locked door. I proceeded to slowly, but cautiously, crawl to the front door and knocked. I observed something strange behind the window, like a moving human. I knocked even harder this time, then got an answer. The door slowly opened, and a tall man, wearing a swimming suit and black gloves came out of the shack and greeted me with joy. He took me inside and served me a cup of whipped cream, hot chocolate . Afterward, he sat in a chair right across me, and softly asked me to tell him what happened to me and why I was in the condition of a lunatic that escaped out of the . I told him the story and he then agreed on calling the West Wild's Police Station which was the closest station to the island.

  Since the island, I was in was so far from cities and the military bases, the police took a very long time to get to me. It took them about 8 hours to arrive. As they arrived, I was full of joy and happiness with the feeling of being rescued, until the same guy who "rescued" me pulled a knife out a pocket knife and stabbed me as hard as he can in the stomach. I fell to my knees and then laid on the sandy floor acting dead. When I opened my eyes I saw the lights of a place where I have visited before, a place full of death. I sat up and walked out of the room and recognized some of the allies I knew and also thought they were dead. A few seconds later, a doctor called Dr. Erik George Houston Williams approached me and said that I was in a 10-year coma. That was the day I would never forget.