Black and white checkered floor tiles set his eyes awash. Unapologetic red gingham picnic table clothes clashed, sending Jonas's senses all over the place. He hardly registered the squeak from his friend's chair as he left for the dine-in deli's bathroom. Alone, Jonas lost himself in the reflection of the napkin container. He couldn't stop from staring at the warped sight. His head ballooned and bulbous, shifting as he rotated himself around.
There wasn't anything unusual with his shift, perhaps that's what was the most disturbing part. Nothing irregular. He'd trained for years, he'd been to enough briefings for them to feel redundant. Yet, as much as he'd been looking forward to the sandwich, the celebratory hoagie, he knew he wouldn't be able to eat it. Jonas wasn't sick, or nasause, he hadn't over eaten at breakfast. He was lost. Lost in the dull aluminum polish, and the way the humming fluorescent light morphed his shadowed face.
He leaned in. Got a good look at himself, the edge of his nose, his pale blue, lifeless eyes. Thoughts were slow. His mind returned to a conversation between the arm chair philosophers he listened to on his commutes. He thought of lives different from his own, of connection. And in that reflection, from the aluminium to his glassy eyes, he saw a different man look back. A sharp prickled beard bordered the vision below his nose over his mouth. Reflected in the pale glassy surface of a cup of bitter black tea, silhouetted by a rising sun he looked into a different set of eyes, a different self. Aching almonds, holding a familiar numb to his own. The cup came closer. He pulled a rough blanket higher over his shoulders, warming himself until the morning heat arrived.
The last colours of dawn drained behind him. Steam from the small ceramic mug rose, the condensation tickling the nostril hairs above his wild beard. Dazed, shattered. Stunned, numb. Not even the sound of a bleating goat prancing along his herd could call his attention. His flock had returned to the familiar. Instinct gathered them before him, munching on thorny petals that escaped sand, completely invisible to his broken soul. Their fear forgotten. Replaced by hunger. As if nothing had happened. As if today was but another day.
Guilt crept, cooling against the rising temperature. Another mechanical swallow of biting tea, its centre smoothed with the remnants of the sugar. It felt wrong to take care, inhumane to treat himself to a touch of sweetness. Beside him a small fire crackled, a thin pot of steeping herbs kept warm resting on the edges. Behind, yards away, was nothing but ashes and ruin. What remained of their shelters was in shambles. Rotten charcoal from the timber that had tented their homes, smoking limbs, and blistered skin. The scent of scalded flesh pungent, and stirred at his guilt. He couldn't remember the last time he ate. He hated how the smell took his mind to his stomach.
He couldn't bring himself to bury the dead. Couldn't turn and face what lay behind him. While he could hardly stand to look at himself, he couldn't pull away. Couldn't look to the sea of sand rolling to the horizon that always hypnotized him. Nor the blanching blue sky above he loved.
Everything had happened so quickly. A normal day in their small village. A lone goat had given him a chase across the dunes. A sudden screaming zip came from nowhere as the giant black metallic birds raced above. They didn't make sense. So alien and out of place, they froze his footsteps.
Demonic barrelling, and deafening explosions. From there he could remember no sounds. No screams. No pleads louder than his pounding heartbeat. No thoughts as he sprinted from his scattering flock, scrambled over the boulders to the pillaging column of smoke that had consumed his community. No words came as he held his neighbours as they passed. No feeling as their smouldering clothes scorched his skin. No recognition as his tears dotted their blistered, lifeless foreheads. No sleep to be had next to their bonfire.
Sunlight cleansed what it could. Black plumbs of evil blotting the sweet sky started to dissipate. The horror of the flames quieted, absorbed by the ancient grains that built the oceanic desert surrounding him. Yet, the natural normalities that filled his waking life with gratitude, reverence, awe, and joy wouldn't resonate. It had happened on a day exactly like today. Unremarkable, aside from the things he'd give anything for now. Waking next to his wife, a kiss on the cheek from his daughter. Stale bread spread with congealed stew leftover from the night before. Now the notion of sleep, or that he'd ever slept, seemed inconceivable.
Their simple, tucked away life had been intentional. Away from the comings and goings in a changing society they felt apart from. They'd moved long before the conflict, long before the invasion. Ignored the whispered rumours of western friction. No need to pay anything more than the weather, and community's comings and goings any mind. Every new body worthy of note. Someone's cousin. Stories of the city wearing him and his spirit thin. The man had sought refuge with family, he spoke of God, and a recalibration with natural creation. In a language foreign to the naive man before the mourning, the stranger's darting eyes had spoke another story.
There was anger, sure, but to where it was uncertain. A palpable lust for revenge fringing an inconceivable abyss of sorrow. To what end did it serve? How could they battle those in the sky? Lay waste to nothing more than an expensive metal avatar while the real executioner sat an unfathomable distance away? Directed beyond their vision, beyond their grasp, beyond their teeth, and toyed with their simple lives, dictating their humanity. Waging war against a goliath was daunting enough, let alone one that transformed into an epidemic of small murder machines. What more could be done than shake their fist at God, the very God that'd given and taken his girl's lives?
To weep would be welcome. His growling stomach nauseated him. There were no real answers to be had, no tangible decisions that could be made. He would live. The days, and hours would move forth, agony forever in endless ebbs. His choices, as always, remained beyond himself, dictated by God and the winds of the West. He poured more tea down his throat, achieving nothing.
Horrified, Jonas reached for the beard mirrored back. Sandpaper stubble shocked his senses to the vinyl stool in the deli. He ran his fingers over the sharp hairs. In the extended hours at command his face had caught up to his fade. Anxiety clamped his mitts around the table like he'd clutched the controller in the early hours of the morning. The colour drained from his knuckles, as the red of the cloth camouflaged with the blood on his hands. They'd patted his back, told him he should be proud, that he'd saved lives. Intel reported their mission had been clean, but Jonas had never felt so filthy. The infrared of his goggles had etched the fragile cartoon like figures across the black of his closed eyes. They had seemed so unconsequential, and inhuman as they stepped. Simple organic material strewn across the sandy landscape.
The arrival of clattering plates gave Jonas a start. His friend had returned, their lunches laid in wait. An inch and a half of folded meat, salami, prosciutto, added bacon, flexed a hoagie that would normally cause him to salivate even to think about, instead, spun his stomach. He tried not to grimace, forced himself from turning his head in disgust. Grains of salt sprinkled over the stretches of the potato chips strewn across his platter caught the light, and reminded Jonas of the desert. A sip from his cola seemed impossible. Too sweet for one so undeserving. He wanted it, wanted to want it, wanted to feel good, wanted to know that he had done good. It wasn't as if he hadn't understood his job. But now he felt the gulf between conceptualizing, and knowing. He didn't know how he'd be able to answer when his daughter inevitably asked how his day had been later that evening. Let alone how he might meet her eyes. They hadn't trained him for that. They hadn't prepared him for this weight.
Thanks for reading,
-Mr. Write