This bonfire I have created is gentle and welcoming, the perfect companion for my slow descent into slumber. To fall asleep with its comforting warmth surrounding me would surely ease this weary heart of mine. In years past, I wanted to make a difference in people's lives, make my father proud, have a family, leave fond memories and a home for my children. Now I only wish for an end to the suffering of the world. Lying here, waiting by the peace of the fire, my mind starts to drift.
What changed? I wonder. Where did things start to go so wrong? After all, I'm sure it wasn't always this way.
This house used to be happy, a place filled on the weekends and holidays with family, friends, and food. A place where the children I might have had could call home. A simple ranch-style house, perhaps, but ample room for youngsters and animals to play outdoors on sunny summer afternoons. There was a large yard about the house with a pool and swings already in place, waiting to be enjoyed, and a light, inviting woods behind the house for exploration and adventures. This was a place where memories could be shared and made. I find myself smiling at the thought of what might have been, allowing myself to believe for a short while that's how life was in this house, knowing the fantasies were a lie. With an almost tangible snap, reality shocks itself back in place. With renewed focus I begin to think back on the past, trying to find the answers I seek.
What happened to this place? I'm sure things weren't like this when I was a kid.
After the long years of school, the expectant graduation, and even longer year working a dead-end job in my home town, I decided to finally do something with my life and enlisted with the military. After basic and a few guard postings, my unit is one of many deployed to repel an invading force from the northern border of India. In truth, we had merely exchanged one guard duty for another. The closest we saw to action were the few sports stations that our friends in communications could pick up for us. We all wanted to do more than just stand in front of a gate, check badges, and drill with our rifles, though for different reasons.
Be careful what you wish for. Mocking my own memories somehow makes it easier.
We wouldn't have long to wait. In the dead of night, a splinter force made its way through to our post, apparently thinking it belonged to the Indian forces. The alarm was raised, and I awoke to fire surrounding the building. Not the calm, soothing flames that I see before me now, but a harsh and threatening blaze that sought to engulf the structures and soldiers alike in its fury. In the drunken state of truly fighting for my life for the first time in my life and although I acted quickly, I thought very little and remember even less from that night. My only clear recollection is the number of men lost in the raid. Three hundred and twenty-seven. I remember their names even now, though I wish I could forget. I would come to be thankful that the troops that attacked us that night were wearing sufficient headgear and cloth to be faceless in the dark. In my next brush with combat, I would not be so fortunate. Following the defense of the base, what was left of my unit receieved medals and promotions. We were also separated into new units, and I never heard from any of them again.
That was probably for the best. They wouldn't have liked the rest of the tour, or maybe theirs was the same. I don't know. I didn't think much of it then, and it certainly doesn't matter now.
At first, combat was just as I expected, with clear divisions between friend and foe, right and wrong. I didn't realize when the lines started to blur, but as I noticed the change, it was too late. I had already crossed the point of no return. By that point, guerrilla warfare had become more common than I would care to admit. Laying mines, shaped charges, and other traps were becoming my specialty. Once we rigged a 40-foot section of dirt road and the surrounding two feet of grass with a 6-foot pit blanketed with three kinds of oil, wooden spikes as thick as a man's leg from some surrounding trees, and incendiary grenades laced through the whole mess like lights on a runway. Shaped charges would be set off in sequence when an enemy unit marched through the zone, collapsing the ground and plunging the enemy into their awaiting doom. It took three days for the unit to reach the specified point.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
When the hostiles arrived, my stomach twisted. No longer fighting comfortably masked adversaries, the people that walked along the road that day had names that I would never know and faces I would never forget. All but the captives, who wore thick, black hoods over their heads. The obfuscating cloth could not confuse height, nor hide the curves of the body. I saw who was with the ill-fated troops, and I knew what was about to happen. I could not stand to watch, but neither could I avert my gaze. The calm steps of the march made the thundering of the charges that much worse. I couldn't understand what was said as the ground roared and split open like the maw of some hungry beast, but I can still hear the screams as they clawed at the earth and each other, trying desperately to escape the pit. And then, almost as quickly as the storm had started, the world was once again quiet. I could hear only a faint breeze and the pounding of my heart. The hole was mostly filled and covered by the charges. What was not we completed and left with little more of a mark than when we started.
Several other days passed just as that one had, with more storms of earth, fire, and screams. There were days both with and without innocents, but it didn't matter. We made those people afraid of their own land, and I had no idea then how they were going to return the favor.
More than just lives were lost back then. We all lost part of ourselves during our time in India. Though whether it was lost, thrown away, or left behind, we had to decide for ourselves. In my case, it was buried just like the hundreds of people we left in the soil. Like the buried regret, the people I killed didn't stay silent, nor were they content to remain in the earth. My sleep was restless, filled with nightmare visions through the long hours of the night. The faces that I wished I could forget would not go quietly into obscurity. I attempted to consign my memories to oblivion, but the void did not want them.
I quickly discovered there was to be no peace for me in this house. I would occasionally feel a hand on my shoulder, something that should seem calm and comforting but for the deathly chill and tension that accompanied the phantasmal grip. Out of the corner of my eye as I moved through the house and in my reflection, whether it be in a window, a mirror, or water, I saw faint shapes of the masses behind me. The figures were almost human, but lacked substance and definition, merely shadows of their former selves. There were whispers in voices I couldn't quite hear, using words I couldn't quite recognize or understand. I could hear my name being spoken among the darkness, and the screams from so long ago still filled my ears. Everything I ate and drank had a faint taste of blood, and I found that no matter what I tried I could not rid myself of the flavor.
Was I going mad? Was I always out of my mind and simply refused to see it? I need to be free of this insanity! Please, dear God, let me go!
While I have not the instruments used during my days in the armed services, the training had never left me. I know what will make useful components. I know how to assemble and improvise the tools I need. I know where to place them in order to have the greatest effect. Most importantly, I know how long the devices I make will need to do the job. The specters of the past seem to lurk at the edges of my vision, watching intently as I craft implements of banishment. Is it disbelief that stays those ghostly hands? Wondering if such a thing can still harm their wisplike forms? Perhaps expectantly awaiting new additions to their ranks? I have not the time to ponder the answers. My work keeps me busy as the promise of release keeps me focused, and I lose track of time.
Finally, I will be free, I allow myself to hope. Peace at long last will be mine.
At last, my final and most elaborate trap is set. In a moment, the reaction is set in motion. As I wait, a mixture of expectation and panic comes over me as I simultaneously trust my skills and doubt myself. Seconds seem hours, and even the haunting faces are frozen in anticipation. Then I hear it, a faint crackling that seems to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time, spreading slowly at first, just like I planned. That sets my mind at ease some, and I feel myself let out a sigh of relief. I can see my pyre now, a soft glow that offers the release I so desperately desire. As the flames grow, the brightness chases the wraiths that haunt my life back into the disappearing shadows, bringing hope that I have indeed made the right choice. Soon, the last shade is gone and I am left alone with the fire and my thoughts. The light surrounds me promising to take me home, and I welcome it. I feel like I'm floating on air, letting go of the world and all of its pain, embracing the brilliance of everlasting harmony. As I pass through the light of the flames, a new darkness beckons and I feel a biting cold take me.
God help me. They're still here.