Haunting Past

Loud bangs and screams echo in his head as if he is still storming the beaches of Normandy.  His horrifying past haunts him to this day.  Ever since the war he has been working in my old rusty body shop, smoking himself to death.  Someone suddenly drops a tool, and it bounces off the hard, concrete floor.  He scurries his way from underneath the automobile he was currently repairing.  Everyone in the shop stares at him in fear, as he works his way toward the bench, and sits down in a careful matter.  The boots on his feet are torn and battered, as they have been cut with a machete several times.  His shirt is covered in dust like it had been hidden in a cave for years.  His moustache is a grey patch, symbolizing he was a tough sergeant in the war.  The cigarette in between his fingers is the burned land of France after the war was over. Last of all, his haunted eyes staring into nothing, the color of the blood stained beaches in Normandy.  Everyone in the shop quietly waits for him to calm down, while he just sits there, staring into nothing.