Still He Drank It

He knew that it was poison. Still he drank it. I wonder why.

To me, this was the most puzzling of all the odd behaviors of his species. They enjoyed imbibing poison.

Whatever kind of poison we provided them, so long as it affected their brain chemistry, and did not kill at once, they loved it. Always asked for more.

We told them it was poison. Explained how it would kill them over time. Described every gruesome detail, and still they drank.

It seems his species lacks any kind of intelligence. No sense of self-preservation at all.

After only ten of their years in his unbreakable glass cubicle, every possible test performed upon him, I offered him one final drink. I told him this was different from all the other poisons he had been given so far. I said this one will kill him all at once.

Still he drank it.

I watched him die.

This species makes no sense.

They say it will be easy to take their planet. I am not so sure. The species is so strange, they may surprise us yet.

Still, I shall make my recommendations based upon my own extensive studies of their behavior. Whether high command agrees or not is up to them, as always.

I suggest we begin by introducing psychoactive poisons to the populace. Give them time, and they will kill themselves. We will not have to.

A strange, strange species, indeed.

 

Wounded

Warm. Wet. Running down my side.

“How bad is it?”

Shit.

Wrong question.

I shouldn’t have asked that one. For now the pain hits me. It hits me hard.

“You’ll live.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” I manage. “Whatever you say.”

I don’t know if it’s the pain, or if it is the bloodloss, but everything grows dim. I’m passing out again.

I remember coming to a couple of times during transport. Slipping in and out of awareness into dreams, and into darkness.

One time I thought I saw you there. In the transport. But that must’ve been just another dream.

I’m awake at hospital now. The nearest proper one. Three days’ journey from where I was wounded. I haven’t been this far from the frontline in eighteen months.

They say I developed a fever. For a while there they weren’t sure if I really would pull through or not.

I’m on the mend now. The fever’s gone. The wound no longer infected it’s healing nicely. Another scar for me to carry all my life. I do not mind. I’m just so glad to be breathing. That is all that matters now. I’m just so glad to be breathing.

Two weeks, they say. Two weeks I’ll rest here, and then back to the battle it is.

I think I’ll rather enjoy this two weeks of mine. After eighteen months in the front line, I feel kind of justified in getting a break. Just wish it didn’t have to hurt so much to get here.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d never shy away from doing my duty. But still, eighteen months of war will get to you. A moment of rest, of peace and quiet in the beautiful surroundings of an old hospital like this one, it begins to feel like heaven.

I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated a place and a moment quite as much as I do this one here and now. Each breath I take, it’s like being born again.

There’s flowers in a vase near the door to my room. The room I share with only two others. The colors of the flowers are amazing. That such beauty can still exist in this world of war and pain and suffering. I spend hours looking at those flowers in the vase. Absorbing all their beauty.

Seems awful now, but when the war started, I was happy.

This was my chance to get away. This was my escape.

From the moment I enlisted, he couldn’t touch me. He couldn’t hold me any longer. My life belonged to the military now.

I expected to die very fast. I was okay with that. I’d much rather be dead in the service of the kingdom, than be kept alive for your entertainment even one more day.

Little did I know I’d turn out to be so good at war.

All the hatred I felt towards you, all the anger I could never express, I channeled it all towards the enemy. It made me an efficient killer.

All the need to survive, to stay one step ahead of you and all your games, it had honed my strategic skills to perfection. How ironic I had you to thank for my success at war.

Two weeks of rest and recuperation, before I would return. Two weeks of peace and quiet. I loved it all.

The night before I was to return to active duty I held the hand of a dying man. It wasn’t the first time I had done so. Unlikely that it would be the last.

In the morning I returned to my room. What few belongings I had would have to be packed.

I stopped by the vase of flowers. I breathed in their scent. Inhaled their beauty.

Standing there I overheard a conversation. They were talking about the new captain of my company. A city-dweller. A rich man who had bought himself a commission. Paid for his rank with money instead of brave action.

I didn’t pay much attention. This sort of thing happened all the time. Bigshots wanted to play at war, until they saw its reality, and swiftly bought their way out again. Just too bad this one had to come to my company to get his taste of action. Wish he’d gone someplace else.

But then they said his name.

Your name.

And everything stopped.

The flowers filled my field of vision. An echo in my ears, your name.

A thought.

This is war… where people get killed all the time.

 

The Captain

No. We will not withdraw from this position. Win or lose, this is where we make our stand.

His lieutanant might be right. If they withdrew to the Caves of Calling, they would no doubt live to fight another day. But there comes a time when “another day” just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Here. Now. Today. This is where the war would be decided. This is where it all would end. One way or the other.

Once they were surrounded, there would be no more escape. No more withdrawing, and regrouping, and returning to the fight. No options anymore.

Maybe the desperation of trying to survive would change the odds somehow. Maybe they’d grow wings. Or maybe they’d just go their graves with a bang instead of a whimper.

It didn’t really matter. Not anymore. Who wins, who loses, just let it end. Just let this war be over.

Strategies discussed. Weapons placed. Positions found.

Then waiting.

Always so much waiting.

They don’t really tell you that, do they, in training? Just how much waiting is involved.

You get this impression that it’s all so fast all the time. Troops sent here and there, flown in, flown out, split-second decisions where your training to obey commands has got to replace all thinking or you’re dead.

Bullshit.

Mostly it’s just waiting. With some moments of terror thrown in every here and there, mostly it’s just waiting.

Well… sounds like the wait is finally over.

Explosions. Gunfire. Flashing lights. Smoke. Dust. Commands yelled and obeyed. Screaming. Pain and blood and suffering. Time, always in slow motion.

Still alive, huh.

How weird that it seems to have worked. We took our stand… and won?

Two days after the war was finally over, Captain Lyles was killed. Officially it was a tragic accident. The greatest hero of our side. The man who decided all our destiny. He who won the war.

Unofficially he ate his own gun.