Looking Glass

Josephine Lim | 10

They came in the dead of a moonless night, guided by the shadows.

My parents had no choice in the matter. I’m one of the lucky ones, saved by the recruiters from a life of poverty and desperation. At least, that’s what they tell me.

Throughout my time at the Academy, I frequently wrote letters to my parents. Even with my mentor’s reassurance, I couldn’t help the bile that rose in my throat every time a letter didn’t arrive, only able to be soothed by the bright white envelope, letters scrawled in my mom’s loopy handwriting.

Eventually, I stopped writing. I got promoted to a higher rank, and my responsibilities got in the way. Being a prison guard was a respectable position, but it left no time for anything else. The distrust of my leaders had vanished by then, and I believed them when they said my parents were okay. I didn’t feel the need to double check.

Whispers about her began before her arrest was even made public. We called her the “Banshee”, the topic of drunken conversations and whispered words. Violent protests with explosions and suicide bombers, rallies that left half the city in ruins, burning shops and anything else in their path. She had done it all.

I shake my head, the rumors circling in my head as I walk toward her cell, wondering how such a monster was created. I balance the tray of food precariously on my knee as I type in the passcode into the keypad. The door buzzes as it slides open, and I step into the weary gray room. I grip the sides of the tray with both hands, knuckles white. I face the infamous prisoner, ready to stare into the eyes of a monster. Of someone who would risk anyone and everything for a flimsy cause they don’t truly believe in.

Instead, I find the eyes of my best friend.

Her eyes are red from crying, but they’re a shade of piercing blue that I would recognize anywhere. A shade so familiar to me during my childhood at the village.

The words lodge in my throat, never leaving my mouth.

The Banshee--Kia--looks up, shock crossing her face as realization dawns upon her. She rubs her eyes in disbelief. “Jonas?” She asks, her voice unsure, unsteady.

I flinch at the sound of my old name, quickly molding my features into a scowl.

“Kenzo,” I bark at her, my anger the only thing suppressing my feelings. Feelings of a ghost, a ghost I left behind and thought I killed. “My name is Kenzo.” I place the tray of food in front of her, turning quickly to leave before I lose control.

“Jonas,” she whispers, her voice soft and sad. Like a plea. As if she’s mourning something she lost.

Commander Alinsky raps the board with his stick, unnecessary considering everyone’s already at attention. He pulls down a map from a bar attached to the ceiling, and points to a spot in the rural countryside. “This is our next target, the village of South Tadchat.” My blood runs cold at the name. “We’ve traced the Banshee back here…” I stop listening as my eyes cease to see anything but the point on the map, the point sitting right on top of my old village.

“Kenzo,” Alinsky barks, shaking me out of my stupor. “You’re going to be leading the Epsilon squad, attacking from the south quadrant.” He pulls down another diagram from the bar, this time showing my village in a close-up aerial view. “Right here,” he says, pointing at the south entrance of my village. The one I used to live near.

“Torch the crops, burn the houses, whatever you can think of,” Alinsky continues. “We’re gonna make this Banshee regret that she ever messed with us.”

My legs feel like lead as we hit the ground running towards the south entrance of my village. My thoughts are scattered, unfocused, the exact opposite of who I should be during a mission. What am I doing here? Why I am here? To serve your country. To serve the government who saved you from a life of poverty.

BOOM! The sound of an explosion rattles my teeth and snaps me out of my thoughts. A house goes up in flames, its wooden structure gasping its last breath.

I go numb as muscle memory kicks in. I shut the visor of my helmet. We enter the village, guns in hand. The flamethrowers go to work behind me, the heat radiating off the nozzles, flames licking the sides of houses.

Left and right, everywhere I can see my childhood going up in flames. The park where I used to play, in ashes. The tiny village school, gone in an instant. The ashes settle on my once immaculate uniform, choking my breath and stinging my eyes.

Through the flames, I see two figures moving past the haze, trying to escape. Two familiar figures. Figures I’d recognize with my eyes closed, because I remember their touch as they ruffle my hair, their smile as I proudly show them my makeshift sand castle.

My heart leaps at the sight of them, but whether it’s from happiness or nervousness I can’t tell. I quickly find my answer when I see one of my squad members coming towards them. He waves his gun in the air, angrily shouting while pointing at my parents.

My dad shields my mom from the barrel of the gun, his hands splayed defensively in front of her even as his knees shake. I grip my gun, my finger on the trigger, the safety down, ready to… ready to…

To do what? The question stills my finger and freezes my feet. My mistake.

In my split second of hesitation, my dad attempts to shove the soldier’s gun away. The soldier yanks the gun away from him, his face contorted with anger, with disgust, with fear.

My finger follows his. The soldier pulls the trigger. I pull the trigger. One second late.

The soldier’s gun, a M2 Browning machine gun, explodes in a flurry of bullets. 50 rounds per second, compared to my Glock’s 20 rounds. Metal smolders in the air.

Three bodies fall to the ground with a thud.

My Glock falls to the ground, as do my knees. I struggle to breathe inside my helmet, and I snap the visor open, inhaling smog. The smoke burns my throat, stings my eyes with acid, but it gives me an excuse to have tears in my eyes.

I look at the blackened metal of my badge, the words inscribed around the emblem. Acta non verba. Deeds, not words.

I rip my badge off, the fabric tearing with a resounding rip. I hold it in the palm of my hand, the gold lining reflecting the amber flames. It glistens against the low light as I throw it into the fire.

I don’t see it burn, don’t see the flames engulf and consume it. Only hear the roar of the flame. Matching the roar of my heart.