The Night I Died

TW: Mental health, physical violence/gore/abuse

I don’t remember much of my time in the war, rather just a short period of bliss and its repercussions. The monotonous routines, the rhythmic shouts of orders, and the melodic smash of boots against the ground in perfect intervals escape me most days. I led a platoon of a decent size, about forty young men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. I’m ashamed by how many of their faces remain a blur in my mind of camouflaged gear, hard hats that made a clunk when flicked, unnecessarily heavy boots, and vulgar comments tossed into the fray within our shared barracks. It was my responsibility to know each and every one of them. They were my soldiers.

One particular night shines vividly through the mess. I had led my troops through an exceptionally brutal scouting mission. We’d dared to pass into Wayward territory, a suicide mission even for the strongest of soldiers. As such, I brought only a fraction of my most talented men–ones who hung close to my side as we stalked through the woods. The mission ended with our blood coating the trees like a miasmal bark, our forces darting back with frustratingly limited intel. It had been a failure of a mission, I sighed internally as I was placed onto a stretcher.

Oddly enough, I’d never suffered a bullet wound until that moment. They hurt more than you would think. It felt closer to an impalement with a cattle branding stick, except the metal grew increasingly fervider, staying lodged between each muscle it was in contact with. I’d never finished my biology studies, but I was suddenly acutely aware of my own anatomy as an unpleasant heat radiated through it. Is this how I die? I wondered. A smaller voice asked, Would anyone even care? A more practical one: Who’s going to figure out the Wayward plans if I’m dead? Finally, an apathetic one: Screw it, they’ll figure it out without me. As I began to settle into the idea of death, a soft, yet firm voice pierced through my warring thoughts.

“You’re not dying. Come on, open your eyes for me,” she coaxed. Maybe I was a fool. Maybe I am a fool. But I grasped onto that voice like a lifeline, like I was slowly sinking into a heavenly lava of pain and she was the rope offering me one last chance at life. So I opened my eyes and beheld the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The white lights of the infirmary blinded me, shrouding her in an ethereal light, her face my only shield against the piercing rays.

That was the moment I fell in love.

Her name was Maple. I learned this once she’d decided that I’d regained enough consciousness to endure an interrogation.

“What happened to you? How did you get all of these wounds?” she inquired, though not unkindly.

I found myself staring at her smooth features. Her eyes were honey-brown peering at mine. Her cheeks had a softness to them, her lips pulled down in a frown that was far from intimidating. Her whole expression held both a sense of ease and passion at once in a way that startled me. Her essence harbored an innocence unbefitting of the situation, and I decided at once that she could never know the violence or atrocities that plagued my duties as a lieutenant. I loved her, and I would show her a gentler side of me that would make her love me, too. Even if that side never truly existed.

“I’m a strategist. I wanted to see the battlefield for myself,” I smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t think it would be that brutal.”

She clicked her tongue, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Of course it would be! You need to be more careful; this war is too risky for a strategist to go running out in front of bullets.”

“Yes. I’ll be more careful in the future,” I assured her. “But isn’t it a little risky for you, too? Seeing all of these mutilated men must be disturbing to you.”

“Yeah, it is,” she let down her finger, angling her head down slightly before taking a breath. “But I couldn’t just sit at home while men like my brother are defending us all at the frontlines. I have to do something.”

“I get that.”

We looked at each other in mutual understanding, something deeper blooming beneath it.

For the next few months, we met in secret at any moment we could find. It was hard as the Wayward plans became abstract and hysteria grew rampant. They were bent on abandoning all sense of order, violating the many rules of warfare as they grew more violent towards our forces. Casualties soared far beyond our means, and time seemed to move either much faster or slower at the most inopportune moments. None could tell how much time was left until they’d finally wear us down enough to overtake us, and the particularly anxious among us speculated over what our lives could be like under their rule. It drove soldiers and other volunteers alike to insanity, the camp becoming raucous and unruly. It gave me a headache.

Maple was my only respite during those long months. She was usually stationed within the infirmary, and we met there before venturing off to a more secluded, private area of the base. We would race behind tarped tents hand in hand, our boots crunching against autumn leaves in a melodic sound. One day, we’d raced all the way past the borders of the barracks, collapsing in mirth under an auburn tree, our fingers still interlaced. The scent of pine encircled us as we laughed, locking eyes and exclaiming about how we hadn’t been caught. She never knew that I scheduled these meetings and ordered all of the officials to never bother us under any circumstances. She still believed I was a strategist.

At that moment, guilt cinched my heart. I buried it swiftly as I scanned her face, merriment still dancing across her delicate features. I could never explain the atrocities I committed every day, the number of husbands and sons and brothers whose families would never see them again because of me. I’d fallen far too hard for that. So instead, I smiled, mirroring her glee.

“So,” she released my hand, turning over onto her stomach to face me. “What should we do this time?”

On dates like this, we’d play games, chat about our day (I’d listen to her ramblings about the rudeness of her coworkers, the “unbelievable” wounds she’d encounter, and the many ways she’d treat them any day of the week), or anything else we could think of. This time, I brought along a small cloth pack that I borrowed from one of my soldiers.

She tilted her head slightly, pulling herself to an upright position. “What’s that?”

“Our lunch.” I unpacked bread, fruit, and other wartime delicacies onto the clean surface of the gingham square. She marveled at the assortment.

“How did you get all of these?!”

My hand slipped, dropping a piece of cheese and hanging in the air as I fumbled for an answer.

She leaned back onto her hands, her eyelids fluttering closed. “Being a strategist really pays, huh.”

Slowly lowering my hands, I replied in a quiet tone. “Yes, it certainly does.”

We ate in a comfortable silence, admiring the ever-changing scenery, the bustle of the encampment that felt peaceful from a distance. Wind picked up her sepia hair, draping it across her forehead. She hardly noticed until I reached across her, smoothing it back into place. Those honey eyes met mine, a swirl of wind gently stirring up a terracotta mix of leaves around us. Her lips parted, and all thoughts of the Wayward, the fact that I built this relationship upon deception, and the inexcusable offences I committed under the guise of righteousness faded away. She was all that mattered in that heavenly moment. I leaned in just as the wind died and heavy, boot-laden footsteps approached us.

She drew back, cheeks flushed as I turned toward the sound in annoyance. Sergeant Goldberg advanced hesitantly in defiance of my orders. This better be important, I scowled in distaste.

I stood, crossing my arms. He halted in front of me, saluting before holding out a bloodied hat, common to fallen soldiers.

“Lieu-” I kicked him. “I-I mean, Strategist Kaiser. I was instructed to bring this to you for investigation. The Waywards launched a surprise attack on our troops, leaving only one survivor of thirty-five men. That survivor was then sent back to us with the news of a peace offering.”

“Why would they request a peace deal immediately after such a devastating attack,” I mused. “Could the soldier have gone mad from the destruction?”

“Psychologically, the survivor seemed askew, so we initially dismissed him. However, he was sent with a written petition from their…leaders? I didn’t know they had those, but whoever they are formalized it for our consideration. They want to meet at the edge of Cypress Hollows. How should we respond?”

I mulled over the information before asking, “Did they express any conditions for the meeting?”

“None. They only asked that we appear ready for negotiations.”

“Um, if I may ask…” Maple stood, her head bowed. “Why did you bring the hat? Is there anything that can be deduced from its conditions?”

“Oh. Right. I brought it precisely for that reason: the soldier was hysterical and covered in blood when he arrived. He was shouting out jumbles of words so unintelligibly we could barely understand him. He was sent to the psych ward, since he didn’t have any physical injuries, but we were wondering if there was any physical factor in his newfound insanity,” Goldberg responded.

I pulled on a pair of gloves from one of the many pockets of my cargo pants. Taking the hat, I turned it to each side. It didn’t have the typical hardness of a soldier’s helmet, meaning that a collision to the head wouldn’t leave a prominent dent on its fabric. Brushing away some of the blood, I found streaks of white, much like scratchmarks left by overhead branches on a dark surface. There were many of them coating the fabric, as if he were hit so many times that the marks began to blend into each other.

Handing it back, I told him, “Check the man for a concussion. Seems he took too many blows to the head.”

“Can I see?” Maple peered over my shoulder.

I brushed my gloved fingers over the discoloration. “Looks like scratchmarks.”

“But what if it’s–”

Looking at Goldberg, I decided, “We’ll send out a well-rounded team to the spot near Cypress. They never mentioned a restriction on arms, or men for that matter. So we’ll bring reinforcements. You never know with the Waywards.”

Then, to Maple, “Let’s go back for today. I have some things to take care of.”

“Can I just see–”

“Don’t dirty your hands with this stuff. Let’s let Sergeant Goldberg here dispose of it.” I peeled off my gloves to rest my hand in hers again, urging her forward as we headed back.

*

A week later, I adorned my leadened armor, weapons strapped across my body as my platoon marched through the woods to meet the Waywards at the edge of Cypress Hollow. Ashy green plants surrounded us, the night lending it an eerie edge as we stalked through. A mist filled the air as soldiers began falling to their knees. I, leading them, detected a synthetic sweetness in the air, unbecoming of the quaint forest. Too late, I turned back to face the soldiers.

“Gas masks! Put your gas masks on!”

This was the part we missed, I realized. They knew which direction we would approach from, and released a chemical agent to distort us on our way there. I closed my eyes, yanking on my gas mask. Opening them, I tensed. Before me was a sea of red uniforms in contrast to the green camouflage of my allies. An ambush.

Yelling, I fired one of my guns sporadically. They were above me, behind me, inside me. They dropped dead as my bullets pierced their bodies, a delirium rising in my chest. I kept firing, running through their ranks as they multiplied. Men and the women treating them alike. They received no mercy, exhilaration filling me as each one fell. I laughed maniacally at that chance to put an end to those backward, nonsensical fools.

An agonized, familiar voice pierced the air. Thin, clear, and excruciating, it entered my ear like a needle that sobered my glee. Lowering my weapons, I rushed over to find Maple on the ground, clutching her leg. I found a group of red-clothed soldiers standing around her. All of them were holding guns.

I didn’t care which one did it. All of them lost their heads.

The last one alive whimpered as I approached.

“I didn’t do it! She fell on her own! We were trying to help her…” he shrieked.

I cocked my head to the side, then started counting his limbs. Four. I pulled the trigger. Now three. Again. Two. One more now–

On his last limb, I heard another cry. Maple was behind me, grabbing my legs and begging me to stop. I shot him one more time in the head, just for good measure, before bending down to meet her.

Glassy eyes greeted me as if they did not recognize my face. The moonlight shone on her face, just like the night we met, as she closed them, then focused them intensely on me.

She sobbed once, then shook her head and murmured, “Stop. Please. Don’t do this.”

Confused, I gazed back at her, cupping her delicate face in my bloodied hand. “They’re the Wayward, honey. I have to. You shouldn’t be here.”

She shook her head again, faster this time. “No! You shouldn’t either. Aren’t you a strategist? They’re–” her voice cracked as she spotted the soldier I dismembered, the lies that I told revealing themselves through his blood. Hardening her expression, she focused on me again. The heavenly figure I had grown so acquainted with vanished, replaced by a fury not unlike that of an angel losing her wings as she spat, “I hate you.” She glanced behind me, nodding slightly.

I felt a prick in my neck, and numbness overtook ecstasy. Darkness clouded the edges of my vision as I watched my hand fall from her face, the scarlet mark that was left there. The red uniforms of the bodies behind her morphed to a friendly, camouflaged green as slumber consumed me and I realized what a horrible, horrible mistake I made. There were no Waywards on that battlefield.

Along with that was the cruel realization that she revived me only months prior only to murder me again, but truly this time.

That was the night I died.

*

I never saw her again after the night I slaughtered my own men. I remember waking up in the infirmary to an apathetic woman who told me that one of the soldiers I killed was Maple’s elder brother, and she had returned home to grieve with her parents. She left home as a younger daughter, and returned an only child, her brother’s body missing three limbs. Another family who’d never see their son again. She would have figured it out, I’d thought. If I had given her the blasted hat, she would have known that the white streaks were a solid form of BZ agents that cause violent hallucinations. A cruel tactic of chemical warfare that was outlawed in 1997 for turning soldiers into sporadic, inhumane beings. The sole survivor from before had massacred his own comrades, just as I had massacred mine. If I had told her who I was from the beginning, maybe we could have learned it together. Maybe she could’ve handled who I was from the start.

I was excused both from my position and my murders under the justification that my mind was “chemically altered” and that I acted “not out of a clear conscience.” The arguments were made by other commanding officers. I’d rather have been executed on the spot than sent to the newly soundless, lifeless barracks to retrieve my belongings, than to have returned home to an equally empty apartment, than to have been forced to live my life with the burden of knowing that the men I was supposed to guide and protect fell by my hand. And that Maple, the one who still holds my heart and soul, hates me. Rightfully.

Everything in me died that night, and yet I lived to tell the tale. Years after the war concluded, I still often find myself lying in bed, gazing at the moonlight that grazed her face that night, and wishing I had never grasped that rope. Wishing I had died bloody in an infirmary bed instead of unscathed on a battlefield at midnight.