Remains - dramatic monologue showing PTSD Flashcards
Opening
On another occasion, we get sent out
In media res
Sounds very ordinary - happened lots before
Are they armed?
Probably armed, possibly not
Morality of the decision is really ambiguous
Three people together
Well myself and somebody else, and somebody else
are all of the same mind
so all three of us open fire
treating the victim like rubbish
and tosses his guts back into his body
Then he’s carted off in the back of a lorry.
all over?
End of story, except not really
stained ground is a literal and metaphorical symbol of guilt
blood shadow
Semantic field of rest contrasts with the violent memories
‘Blink’ ‘sleep’ dream’
vs
‘bursts’ ‘armed’ torn apart’ ‘dug in’ ‘in my head’
Blink and he bursts again through the doors of the bank
Sleep, and he’s probably armed, possibly not
Dream, and he’s torn apart by a dozen rounds
He’s here in my head when I close my eyes,
[repetition of probably/possibly/dozen - signs of PTSD flashbacks - can’t escape memories; and guilt]
Substance abuse to numb the pain doesn’t work
And the drink and the drugs won’t flush him out
Sibilant description of the war zone
not left for dead in some distant, sun-stunned, sand-smothered land
Ending
his bloody life in my bloody hands.
Form
Dramatic monologue in free verse, giving a raw, fragmented feel. Conversational tone
Coupled with …. enjambment and caesura make it sound like a stream of consciousness, showing trauma.
Structure
Volta (“End of story, except not really.”) – The shift from the physical event to ongoing psychological damage at home.
Repetition of ‘probably amed’ possibly not and ‘dozen rounds’ shows repetitive nature of PTSD flashbacks - inescapable.
Moves from ‘we’ in the beginning to ‘my bloody hands’ at the end - starting to accept the guilt rather than distance himself from it.
On another occasion, we get sent out
probably armed, possibly not
well myself and somebody else and somebody else/
are all of the same mind
tosses his guts back into his body
then he’s carted off in teh back of a lorry
End of story, except not really
But I blink
and he bursts again through the doors of the bank
Sleep, and he’s probably armed, possibly not
Dream and he’s torn apart by a dozen rounds
And the drink and the drugs won’t flush him out
he’s here in my head when I close my eyes
dug in behind enemy lines
not left for dead in some distant sun-stunned, sand-smothered land
his bloody life in my bloody hands.
