Personal Narrative: My First Vietnam War

Entering the once lonely house, there was a family rejoicing with a long-gone relative. As striking as the first rose in spring, her silky, soft, shiny hair combined with her enticingly exquisite eyes: producing a sublime look. Her upturned nose, oval face and elegant cheeks exhilarated hope within anyone in sight; she filled a void that could only be filled by her. Instantly ejecting any ridicule of the family, her presence made the household regain its original nobility.

Spiralling into circle after circle on the indigo walls, like an optical illusion, numerous twirling lines were being contained in a plethora of thin liable cracks; suggesting, this house is enriched in Pangaea-old traditions. However, there was a sceptical sense of suspicion of this person. Even though she was an aesthetically pleasing model on the front page of a magazine, she carried a repugnant air of deviousness that might be caused by the compressed sorrow of a traumatic experience. “Good morning, Miss. Here is some mail I need to give you,” I mumbled nervously. She examined it like an inquisitive child.

Looking at it with a frozen grimace, as if she was holding a bomb, she eventually opened the envelope. It was a prize for bravery from the US Army. Ruthlessly degraded by the essence of war, I observed stiff,

It showed of a much happier life, lived by someone who was completely free of the following: guilt, shame and trauma. Her long, curly, frizzy brown hair with a quirky vibrant smile was enticing. Her tracksuit was decorated with numerous rusty old medals from all types of disciplines: ‘America’s future cosmology cognoscenti’, ‘#1 Tennis player in Texas’, ‘Beaumont’s unparalleled ingenious composer of music’.... It looked like this person would’ve been a legend in anything she wished to pursue. As puzzled as an 8 year old contemplating the thought of letters in math, I curiously enquired who this person was. “It was me,” she insisted with a weak