Outside the sounds of
gunfire are ringing through
the night. This is wartime,
and my partner just stepped
on a landmine that blew
him to bits. I had shifted
just out of reach of the
blast, and only caught some
hot shrapnel in my arm. A
bar, still intact, sat next
to the blast site, so I ran
inside as bullets poured down
from the enemy’s higher ground.
A plane overhead dropped
a few bombs down onto their
heads, and their building crumbled
apart into a heap of rubble.
Dust kicked up and swallowed up
the street, swallowing sandbags
and grenade craters and dead bodies.
Some of it seeps into the bar
through the bullet holes in the walls
and windows. I scuttle over to the
bar, throw my rifle on it and
fall to the ground, slamming back
against it. I flip my pack around,
adjusting myself, and pull out
a canteen of water and a can with
some much needed carbohydrates
and protein in it. Pulling my knife out
of its sheaf, I sink it into the top
of the can, and I twist and turn
the blade until the top bends over,
and scoop the food up
with my ***** fingers. The water
tastes good, the minerals swirling
around as I swish it in my mouth.
I finish my little meal, throw the
can down, and stand up and
walk around behind the bar.
An old bottle of whiskey sits
on the dusty shelf. I twist the top
off and take a large swig.
It’s rough and cheap and hits
me hard. I take my jacket off,
and unbutton and remove
my shirt. I wipe dirt off a mirror
on the shelf and cover the knife
with whiskey, and look in the mirror
as I sink my knife into the skin
of my arm, twisting and turning until
the shrapnel from the landmine
pops out. My vision almost clouds
up from the pain, but I remain
determined until all the pieces
are removed. I throw some whiskey
on my wounds, grunting, and pull
a bandage from my pack and wrap
my arm with it, nice and tight. I
button up my shirt and throw
my jacket back on, and then
I notice in the mirror someone
sitting on a stool at the bar.
I turn to see a small girl, a child,
staring ahead with dead eyes,
her mouth slightly agape. She’s
covered in dirt, crusted onto
her skin and red hair, and I
can barely tell her dress is
pink through all the gray. She’s
looking at my chest, but I can
tell she’s not really seeing me.
There’s nothing in front of her,
or around her. She hardly moves,
only her shallow breaths making
her back and chest slowly rise and fall.
I look at her, wanting to say
something, but can’t think of
anything right. But I get an idea.
I look beneath the bar and pull out
two glasses. I wipe them out with
a cloth, barely removing any
dust, and place one in front
of her and the other in front of me,
and I grab the whiskey. I pour just
a bit for her, not knowing how much
her little body can take, and I fill
mine nearly to the brim. I lift my
glass up and grin, and she finally
looks up at me. She looks down
at her cup, picks it up, and looks back
at me, and I ****** my glass towards
her. She smiles as she understands,
and we clink our glasses, like her
mother and father must have. I
throw mine back, and have to gasp
and cough, but she sips hers slowly,
only giving a slight sigh once she’s
done. We lock eyes again, and
hers are no longer dead, and she
smiles a lovely smile, as if a stranger
just gave her water in the desert.
Gunfire erupts from a plane above,
slipping some bullets in through
the windows, and I hear a round
ricochet off a table. Blood and
brains coat the bar as her body
is flung from the stool. I close my
eyes. I wish I was in disbelief.
Picking up my pack and my rifle,
I walk around the bar to her.
I move her mangled little body
around until she’s flat on
her back with her arms to
her side. Her eyes are dead
again, and I close them and
cover them with a nickel
and a penny, hoping that’s
enough pay for the ferry. I
move towards the backdoor of
the bar, **** my rifle, and take
a long, slow, deep breath. And
then I kick the door down and
go outside, once more into the
fray. Once more into the war.
Once more into Hell.
