Precious Pear #7
He should have never been there in the first place.
The license for the car he never owned and the name he never answered to should have raised eyebrows, but the longer the fighting lasted, the less people wanted to ask questions.
He left a note on the counter and caught the first bus to California.
This is something I have to do. I love you. Be home soon.
The first month wasn’t bad. Running and training and waiting. Always waiting.
The other men carried around pictures of dark-haired sweethearts back home and passed the time by graphically describing the first thing they’d do to each one when this was all over. He pocketed a flier he found on the street and scratched out the drugstore logo on the corner, replacing it with a curvy signature and an endless string of x’s and o’s that wrapped around the back to the front again, creating an endless loop of indisputable love.
Susan’s car broke down in the rain outside his house.
Betty was a childhood friend who had always been there for him.
Catherine nursed him back to health three years ago.
Different loves.
Different names.
The same pinafore dress and perfect smile.
He imagined what her lips would taste like. More accurately, he imagined what the lips of any woman would taste like.
When he first got there, he looked at the calendar every day.
Each night he crossed off another date, counting the days until he could go home and prove everyone wrong. Prove he was responsible. Prove he wasn’t the fuck up they thought he was. They’d all cry and hug him and fight with each other over who was the most sorry for ever doubting him.
When Christmas came and went with no word from home, he stopped looking every day.
The war was harder than people made it look. There were no exotic beauties willing to thank him for his brave service. There were no throngs of thankful locals. No care packages from loved ones begging him to come back home.
When the protesters came, he stopped looking every week.
In April, he was given his first serious assignment: an important figure on the enemy’s side was coming out of hiding to get his daughter from the hospital. She had been sprayed by debris from an exploding car three months earlier. There were exactly 87 yards from the hospital exit to the main road. Six seconds to get off the perfect shot.
When his bullet hit the girl instead, he stopped looking at all.
Two days shy of his sixteenth birthday.
He should have never been there in the first place.
The license for the car he never owned and the name he never answered to should have raised eyebrows, but the longer the fighting lasted, the less people wanted to ask questions.
He left a note on the counter and caught the first bus to California.
This is something I have to do. I love you. Be home soon.
The first month wasn’t bad. Running and training and waiting. Always waiting.
The other men carried around pictures of dark-haired sweethearts back home and passed the time by graphically describing the first thing they’d do to each one when this was all over. He pocketed a flier he found on the street and scratched out the drugstore logo on the corner, replacing it with a curvy signature and an endless string of x’s and o’s that wrapped around the back to the front again, creating an endless loop of indisputable love.
Susan’s car broke down in the rain outside his house.
Betty was a childhood friend who had always been there for him.
Catherine nursed him back to health three years ago.
Different loves.
Different names.
The same pinafore dress and perfect smile.
He imagined what her lips would taste like. More accurately, he imagined what the lips of any woman would taste like.
When he first got there, he looked at the calendar every day.
Each night he crossed off another date, counting the days until he could go home and prove everyone wrong. Prove he was responsible. Prove he wasn’t the fuck up they thought he was. They’d all cry and hug him and fight with each other over who was the most sorry for ever doubting him.
When Christmas came and went with no word from home, he stopped looking every day.
The war was harder than people made it look. There were no exotic beauties willing to thank him for his brave service. There were no throngs of thankful locals. No care packages from loved ones begging him to come back home.
When the protesters came, he stopped looking every week.
In April, he was given his first serious assignment: an important figure on the enemy’s side was coming out of hiding to get his daughter from the hospital. She had been sprayed by debris from an exploding car three months earlier. There were exactly 87 yards from the hospital exit to the main road. Six seconds to get off the perfect shot.
When his bullet hit the girl instead, he stopped looking at all.
Two days shy of his sixteenth birthday.
He should have never been there in the first place.
posted by Anonymous at 2:12 PM
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