Seven Billion Secrets
Three Words
FOR ONCE IN THE BASE CAMP, EVERYTHING WAS DEADLY SILENT; EERILY SILENT, BUT in a calming and settling way of relief and peace. Sunlight blinked with a struggle, fading in and out of its blindness, whipped apart by the sand grey wind. Military care packages and supply boxes confined in clear packaging tape remained as quiet and untouched as yesterday. The only movement was the soft shifts and folds of blankets stretched tightly in pleading warmth from the rigid camouflaged forms. In a tent beside the gates, a small, dim light glowed desperately.
Inside, a man was sitting upright on his cot, a flashlight balanced on his scrunched up knees. He was maybe thirty-five or seven, not much older. Black hair hung near his eyes, and his dark grey eyes sparkled with tears. In his right hand was a worn photograph, nearing at least its fourth birthday. His left hand balanced a dull pencil and a sheet of paper resting against a book. Setting down the photograph, he pressed the charcoal harder, forming smooth, fluid lettering.
He paused. Unsure what to write, maybe; nervous maybe; the letters were always the hardest, not the anticipation and fear of war, but the writing. Is it better to write the real happenings, the hardships, or to write the false hope of every soldier?
The first three words he used for every letter reminded him of their purpose. They were only used at the beginning and at the end, for hope, yes, for reassurance, yes, for comfort, yes.
Impatiently, he tapped the pencil against the paper. Beside him in the next cot over, Cusick stirred uneasily. He looked over, and instantly felt guilt. It wasn’t a guilt for him to burden, but a burden to share.
Jesse Cusick was nearing his twenty-first birthday. He was an attractive man, with a whole future ahead of him. Every night, he wrote to his younger step-sister, telling her about his ‘adventures’ and his ‘expeditions.’ She was too innocent to be scarred by the insecurities that resulted in war.
He shook his head and blinked away the tears that had foamed in his eyes. Sighing, he began the letter again, focusing on the positive parts of life. His wife had had their third child only three months before and it had been three months ago that he had been allowed to talk to her.
A light shake startled him. He slid out of his cot, walking to part the tent opening. Outside, a fire blazed through the camp, followed by a series of explosions even bigger.
“Cusick,” he shouted, shaking his tent mate violently. Cusick’s eyes crawled open. “C’mon, we have to get out of here,” he continued, dragging Cusick out of the cot.
“What? What’s going on,” his eyes sparked and snapped like lightning.
Instead of replying, he pulled Cusick’s hand and ran out of the tent as the ground shook. Hundreds of soldiers flooded the area. The silent boxes of supplies blew and sent shattered fragments in every direction. A black sky smoothed over, suffocating with anger, rage, and regret, as if to say I’m sorry it must end.
That was the last thing he saw; a bullet streaked through the air. He stumbled back, pressing his hands against his chest. Red tears from his heart gloved his fingers with their lined bands. The music of his heart rushed, then calmed to slowing dramatic pauses. The last thing he heard were them, the planes, shooting farther away than the stars could ever in a lifetime.
In his tent, a letter caught fire, running through each carefully stitched word, smearing the ink into tears never to be touched. The first three words burned into a black memory. Then, the last few words began to burn.
I love you, forever. Love,
Daddy
Inside, a man was sitting upright on his cot, a flashlight balanced on his scrunched up knees. He was maybe thirty-five or seven, not much older. Black hair hung near his eyes, and his dark grey eyes sparkled with tears. In his right hand was a worn photograph, nearing at least its fourth birthday. His left hand balanced a dull pencil and a sheet of paper resting against a book. Setting down the photograph, he pressed the charcoal harder, forming smooth, fluid lettering.
He paused. Unsure what to write, maybe; nervous maybe; the letters were always the hardest, not the anticipation and fear of war, but the writing. Is it better to write the real happenings, the hardships, or to write the false hope of every soldier?
The first three words he used for every letter reminded him of their purpose. They were only used at the beginning and at the end, for hope, yes, for reassurance, yes, for comfort, yes.
Impatiently, he tapped the pencil against the paper. Beside him in the next cot over, Cusick stirred uneasily. He looked over, and instantly felt guilt. It wasn’t a guilt for him to burden, but a burden to share.
Jesse Cusick was nearing his twenty-first birthday. He was an attractive man, with a whole future ahead of him. Every night, he wrote to his younger step-sister, telling her about his ‘adventures’ and his ‘expeditions.’ She was too innocent to be scarred by the insecurities that resulted in war.
He shook his head and blinked away the tears that had foamed in his eyes. Sighing, he began the letter again, focusing on the positive parts of life. His wife had had their third child only three months before and it had been three months ago that he had been allowed to talk to her.
A light shake startled him. He slid out of his cot, walking to part the tent opening. Outside, a fire blazed through the camp, followed by a series of explosions even bigger.
“Cusick,” he shouted, shaking his tent mate violently. Cusick’s eyes crawled open. “C’mon, we have to get out of here,” he continued, dragging Cusick out of the cot.
“What? What’s going on,” his eyes sparked and snapped like lightning.
Instead of replying, he pulled Cusick’s hand and ran out of the tent as the ground shook. Hundreds of soldiers flooded the area. The silent boxes of supplies blew and sent shattered fragments in every direction. A black sky smoothed over, suffocating with anger, rage, and regret, as if to say I’m sorry it must end.
That was the last thing he saw; a bullet streaked through the air. He stumbled back, pressing his hands against his chest. Red tears from his heart gloved his fingers with their lined bands. The music of his heart rushed, then calmed to slowing dramatic pauses. The last thing he heard were them, the planes, shooting farther away than the stars could ever in a lifetime.
In his tent, a letter caught fire, running through each carefully stitched word, smearing the ink into tears never to be touched. The first three words burned into a black memory. Then, the last few words began to burn.
I love you, forever. Love,
Daddy