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By Airmoran
I peered out of the only source of light there was: a crack in the wall. One needed to see light even the dark corners of his deliverance ship… the same ship that will bring him to battle. Through that minuscule porthole, I could observe everything I would have to fight: Thousands of soldiers… I could see their faces. Every single pair of eyes had the expression of blindness: I could not spot a single individual among those forces of opposition who had seen battle before. But I knew why; those who have seen a fight never would be able to show their faces. All naïve ones all want my blood as their trophies, while all the experienced units hid their own. They were guarding a fortress… and our target. The lakeside where this fortress stood was wide open… for both them and us. I could tell by the grim, gray posts, which guarded our entrance to the lakeside, would soon be filled with crimson rivers. If I could ever tell those children of what horrors I have faced wanting blood trophies, I would not have to pity them. Unfortunately, no man has ever told a story to his foes in this time of conflict.
It was five minutes before I would have to enter the battlefield again, before I would have to become a coward again. For thirty years I’ve served… but I had never claimed more than one person’s future… Every war, every battle, I would hide where there would be no fighting, in a hole, behind the lines, or cowardly behind someone braver than I. But why? I have seen enough bloodshed to confront the dread manslaughter, heard more death cries than any other citizen, and fired more bullets than anybody could ever conceive.
Yes… yes! It was that question asked by that man. I still remember that night with the clarity of day. I was reckless then, blindly firing at anything that moved our way. I never actually hit any soldier, except that one person. Since then, the questions asked by that one man has caused me too much fear for me to ever visualize the concept of ending another soul again.
It would appear humorous to me how one simple question would assault my thoughts so often, but it did. Every night, I would have despicable nightmares of me being a victim of an enemy’s mindless murder, and me never wanting to take revenge upon my killer. It broke every philosophy I ever lived by, and how I wished I could place control in my dreams to finally take vengeance in my slumber. But that never happened. Every hour that passed in my rest would have the same man, stabbing or bleeding me until I could no longer take anymore. But that man giving me his gratitude… that evening… caused those dreams.
Thirty years have passed on since that night. Where the combat took place was a scene I could never wipe out of my head. It would seem almost ironic that such bloodshed could appear in that realm. Some say Utopia is the technological perfection, and Paradise would be the garden of peace, but to describe this domain… It was neither Utopia nor Paradise, but rather what fell in-between. Children would always be joyful there, the colors that shaded the garden were never dim: the bright sun that stood hanging from the sapphire sky brightening the drab shadows, and ripe fruits teased the sentiments. Anyone who was never present in this garden would misinterpret it as Tantalus’s punishment, but water never turned into sand in this Eden… it would turn pure. Even when treaded on, grass would never flatten. This heaven was what was to become an arena for armed forces, but the terror that this place would host could never be justified. We had no reason to conquer this area. We never wanted to, nor did we ever need it. But we, I, attacked. It didn’t matter to me… if I was given a chance to fire recklessly at targets, then I did so.
We waited until dark, when shadows were able to dim the garden’s peace, but candle lamps kept the garden bright and joyful, etching on our patience. Soon, however, the sounds of holiday music caused us to grow restless, and we raided from the front. What followed next would transform the wonders of the garden into any other fighting field: dark, wretched and the smell of death would allure all.
I had opened fire immediately, and followed my senses: if it did not have a familiar face, then aim at it. Unfortunately, nothing in this garden was familiar to my violent mind. I had destroyed pots, tables, lights, flowers, and anything else that made this place cheerful. But after I had eliminated all that was not living, a single man foolishly ran towards me. I did what was natural for my childish state of mind, but later, I would regret losing my heedlessness to death.
When the first shot had pierced his heart, time suddenly froze around me. My comrades had stopped running, and our targets had quit fleeing. Pieces of glass flying now stood in the air, and leaves no longer swayed in the breeze. Even the smallest of debris had decided to rest in the now stale wind. Smoke from the lamps equalized themselves, standing coolly among the air like snow. I could only sense one object that remained in motion. Among the snapshot of time, the motionless around me confused my eyes and made it impossible to find that item. But I realized I could still move my eyeballs, forcing me to frantically search for a pair of moving eyes… then I found one. They belonged to my victim’s body, still standing, but with a gash on his chest. The one thing that moved in the motionless were my victim’s eyes, and mine as well. By his eyes I knew that was with me in this frightful state. I peered around, staring at the fixed horrors that were drawn around me. His eyes, too, moved. However, he was only staring at the wound that besieged his chest. He then slowly looked up, unable to close his eyes, to find the weapon held in my hand had caused his death. We stared at each other, him not being able to yell in pain, and me not able to scream in confusion. Then I heard a battle drum. It sounded off slowly, methodically, and steadily, but, increasingly, the time between each beat had lengthened. This staggering nuisance went on, until a year had passed between each beat. Oh, the horror it was! Never before, had such boredom come from listening to each beat, waiting for the next one to come, knowing that another beat would just follow.
Then I had realized that they were not drums: they were my victim’s heart, screaming, and dying a slow, painful death. Then a second set of beats slowly clawed upon my ears. I look around the motionless garden, but could not witness another man dying. In dangerous curiosity, I became more eager and intolerant to learn the source of the other heart. Then I listened to myself. Every time a second heart would beat, I would tremor at the horror of the sight of my victim, which is what made it clear that I was the origin of the second heart. His heart would beat, and mine would follow soon after… but in a lower pitch. We were only able to stare at each other’s eyes to pass the time… but soon, when it seemed as a lifetime had proceeded between each beat, the hearts had stopped… both his and mine. What followed would be worse than the ancient pulses: no sound at all.
The boredom of the silence of death struck fear into my heart, which I realized, was still alive. As his eyes grew bigger, I learned that every man that died couldn’t die in peace, but with several lifetimes of silence. But then, after only several months of the silence of death, I heard his thoughts. They spoke directly to me. However, what he said would only insert pangs of questions that would startle me for the remainder of my life….
His thoughts thanked me.
He thanked me for killing him, and for ending his life. I never understood why, since he had lived in a garden of eve, had everything he had ever needed; yet he was content to die. His thoughts also told me he was never spoiled by the riches, and never was depressed.
I have kept awake for nights on end thinking of his reply. I came to believe that it was a question… but what it asked and what answer it sought I never did understand. But after every morning, I would awaken believing it was a trick… a hoax of sorts. But whoever committed this grand act wasn’t human, but I never did believe that, nor will I ever do.
“It was what I had hoped for,” he had said through his dying intellect. All I could ever respond was by merely and weakly blurting short sounds of “how?”
“I just do,” He heeded. “There was no purpose, nor is there now a reason”
“Purpose? Reason?”
Before he could clarify, an awful silence of death had come over my ears. It wasn’t simply “soundless”, but rather it was completely deafening to me as I tried and failed to gasp for sound much as lungs would gasp for air. After what seemed like a short while after he had asked me his question, time had begun to resume, laying me in a world of thought and question.
It was then that I realized that only five seconds have passed since I listened to a man die. The battlefield was now Hades’ realm, the darkness of blood contrasted with the garden, and the formal wonderland has grown evil, with no lamps to cherish the haven. The battle itself, however, was now over, and we had come out victorious. Yet I had not. I later learned that I was the murderer of the only man killed, and ever bloodstain that tainted the garden was his. Never did the formal cheery look returned to the utopian paradise after I had passed through there, nor will it ever have the sweet spiritual sense as one man was killed within its wake.
Through the years, I have come to know that I was a coward, since I could tell in the eyes of my comrades that they have been through the same horror I did, but yet they were able to kill again. They knew what I had faced, too, but I was never able to build the strength to remove life again.
But that was 30 years ago… I since then have grown weary, and now, in the present, the gates to another battle have opened. With as much instinct I had to kill so naively long ago, I hid now within a pit dug by my comrades, still pondering the question of why one would thank me for his death… the same question that would soon bring me to insanity… still, I wondered. What has he done to want death, how could he talk in his thoughts, or what has he seen to consider death in his Heaven?
Then I looked up into the swarm of enemy legions, and saw that same naive expression that I had seen through the crack in the wall. Soon, as I stared into their reckless aim, the insanity that had tormented my thoughts had taken over my mind. But it was not my fault. I have been transcended to deliver this boredom. But how my goal in life… I can’t think of the solutions. In anger for solutions, I jumped out of the hole, and raced to the front lines, where I was meant to be, only stopping to fire my weapons… firing into the crowd of enemies, always shooting too high, as I did so long ago. I never stopped running. The adolescent minds of my foe never noticed where I was. I had no intention of telling… them my warnings, for we were all in the same league… the leagues of murderers. One could not learn a lesson as well by hearing it than by living it.
I have spent several thousand lifetimes learning truth of killing, and I have learned well the consequences. For I was now their preacher… their preacher of death.
It was then, I realized that I had run too far. Satisfied with my vulnerability, I did what my colleague had done three decades ago. Soon, I felt a hole in my chest, where I had struck my associate 30 years past. I looked up, saw a pair of moving eyes, before thanking him with my thoughts and listening to the utter stillness that I shared with whom I had now cursed with the knowledge of silence.