Just a quick post of the opening three paragraphs of the story I'm working on, called "Strike", hope you enjoy.
“Harry, finish your soup, then you can go out with your friends.” His mother glared, but Harry didn't eat, his head hung, eyes fixed on the bowl in front of him. “Harry...” He didn't move.
“I'm not hungry.”
“You look it.” She was right. For the past few weeks he hadn't been eating very much, his body began to look slimmer, his skin grew pale in comparison to what it had been like. Somehow just standing at six feet tall on top of being slim had made him look even more sickly. He didn't worry much about how he looked any more though, his blonde hair became raggedy, unkempt, bags hung below his blue eyes and his. “Look, I know it's not very exciting, having soup every day, but it's all we can afford right now.” Her glare faded slowly, her bottom lip quivered, she looked away. Harry glanced across the table at his younger brother. He played mindlessly with his spoon. To him it was probably an aeroplane, mostly likely gunning down the Nazis, watching them plummet to the ground, a small explosion and a stream of flames to follow. Harry grew more jealous every day of that childish naïvety. He wished he could be that careless, that care free, and that his parents could be the ones handling all the problems. As selfish as that sounded, it was the truth. But he knew now, his eighteenth birthday bearing down on him, that he had to embrace his future, not reminisce about his past.
Harry also knew as well as his mother did that he would have to be the one to put the bread on the table. To be the working man of the family. They knew this because they knew his father was far less than capable of doing that himself. It hadn't always been like this. He had been in the war, part of Operation Overlord, British 6th Airborne Division, on Utah beach, he made it through the night, only to be shot in the leg and sent home a few days later. He had been paid fairly generously for his troubles too, but had wasted it all on alcohol and gambling. Harry had grown to resent him for this.
Harry had grown to resent a lot of things. The rich children for having all of the toys he wanted for Christmas. The poor children for having a loving family to support and care for them. It wasn't always bad, though, his mother had once been a gentle, kind and caring woman, until his father managed to beat that out of her. The alcohol had changed him too, he had always been stern and you wouldn't dare to cross him, but he'd only hurt you if he knew you could learn something from it. But now it was something else, it was something sinister, like he blamed Harry for something. Harry didn't know what.