Dai Stihó

Dear James...

---

Private James Carter turned the letter over, expecting to find more. He expected to find something that said, "just kidding, James. Still waiting anxiously for you to come home. Your friend forever, Stephie," or perhaps, "Hah, got you, didn't I — well, here are some cookies to make up for the joke I just pulled on you, and I'll see you soon, okay?" But there was nothing written on the back, no cookies to be found. Just the letter, just his best friend telling him that he was someone else, that he had broken his promise.

But he hadn't changed, he wanted to say! He had promised Steph that nothing would change, and he damn well intended to keep his promise, even if she didn't believe him. He had made it through training just fine, hadn't he, and while he didn't look forward to combat, he would still be the same person he always was. He would show her, he thought — he would get back and they'd go to the East Orange Diner together at one in the morning and everything would be okay.  They would still hike the woods together, talk about their futures, be the best of friends as they always had been.

Everything would be okay. So why did he keep turning the letter over, again and again, trying to find out where it was that "I know I was wrong," left him?

"Jimmy?"

"Huh? What, Iron Man?" James turned to look at his bunkmate,  Anthony Stark, eyeing him from over the railing of the bed above. Naturally, the first time someone put two and two together, the name stuck; it helped that the guy was as rambunctious and cocksure as his nickname.

"She dump you?" Tony looked serious for a second.

"What? No, man, we weren't dating, we're just friends. Anyway, she's just...worried that I'm not really answering, you know? No calls, no emails, no letters and —"

"I'm sure you're not dating, Jimmy-boy. Friends don't write letters that lead to you turning the thing over and over like it was a goddamn prayer bead or somethin'. Anyway, just go call her up on the phone and tell her that the mail hasn't been coming because we have an alert that the mail trucks are being targeted and the comms been down. Blah blah blah, you're sorry, you love her, you want to make her moan in—"

"Aww, go f— wait, the phones are back up now?"

"Actually... no, I just wanted to see how you'd react."

"You son of a bitch."

"You know it. But I'm a son of a bitch that's a damn good shot, thank you very much. Now put down the goddamn letter, Jimmy-boy, and let's go pop some cans from five hundred feet."

---

The first few weeks that the company went out on patrol, all was quiet. The humvees trundled through their routes in Helmand province and although there were few smiling faces, it didn't seem like anyone was trying to kill them, either. James started paying more attention to the clouds than the people around them, figuring that a few more months of this might not be that bad. And then the honeymoon wore off.

There were skirmishes, from time to time; he became used to going from idyllic daydreams to the heat of battle in a split second, when the inevitable ambushes would happen, and desperately trying to find cover when the bullets started landing all around him. He learned about the IEDs that riddled the roads, that would be placed just after they went out on patrol and be waiting to blow them up when they were on their way back, almost within sight of the base. He learned that promises by the tribal members had about a 50/50 chance of being a trap, and he started to keep his guard up, constantly, after he heard of the suicide bombers that posed as informants to get into the American bases.

But he still joked around, albeit with more gallows humor. He still tried to be kind, giving sweets to the children that he walked past in Nawzad, though he did it less and less when the firefights started to erupt as he was busy with candy in one hand. And he still thought about Steph and home, though he didn't really know what to say to her. Occasionally, he would send out a email to let her know he was alright... but he kept them short, not having that much to say.

The thing about war, though, is that it isn't like the movies, where one event suddenly turns friendly, courageous fathers and sons into those that are broken and can't cope. Instead, it's the accumulation of events, each tolerable by itself, that ends up crushing a person under the combined weight of its insanity.

It was urban conflict, bitter street-to-street fighting in Garmsir where James sighted down his rifle and saw an insurgent go down, AK-47 in his hands, and then a little boy, no more than ten, go to pick it up. James hesitated, saying, no, don't and the boy turned the gun towards the Americans, clearly inexperienced, clearly wanting to kill them anyway. And then he pressed the trigger, watched the bullets hit, saw the boy collapse next to his father? brother? uncle?

It was the time after that, when he saw another kid go for a gun, and he didn't even think, just shot, and moved on to the next target.

It was the teenager that came to them, hysterical, in the middle of the night, begging the guards to talk to someone. She was dressed in the traditional burqa, and the translator said she came to warn them of an impending attack. And then, when Tony — Iron Man — volunteered to see her to some shelter and get her something to drink, she pulled the trigger on the bomb she had hidden, killed him and two others.

It was, overall, being in a hostile environment where the rules of engagement didn't apply, where every friendly gesture could be a setup to kill you, where you don't trust anyone, because that's how you stay alive. And James knew that it was changing him, but he stubbornly held onto the belief that it would be over after his deployment, that he'd go back to Stephie and they'd be fine, pick up right where they left off.

---

And then his tour was over, just like that. He would be lying if he said he wasn't counting down the days, but he felt that the last few weeks had been calm, calmer than before — or maybe he was just getting better at surviving — at being distrustful of everyone and anyone. But now that he was home, he could let that go and it would all be okay.

Seeing Stephie after getting off the plane gave him hope — the tears in her eyes, the smile on her face, the bear hug he wrapped her up in; it was everything he had hoped their reunion would be. I missed you, he whispered to her, and the kiss she gave back was forgiveness enough. The reunion with his family was equally joyful, and he settled easily into life back at home, reconnecting with all those that he hadn't talked to.

He does take her out to the East Orange Diner and they still go for walks together and trips to the beach. As the days turn into weeks, though, James realizes that Steph's words to him when he left are growing more and more true, as much as he fights against it. He isn't the same person he was anymore, and the time they spend together is more going through the motions than re-establishing what they used to have.

James sees it in the way that she asks him questions that he has no answer for, in the way that the more she wants to know what happened, the less he wants to tell her. He understands that she wants to make up for time lost and share in his experiences, but he would never expose anyone else to that, even if his stories could convey what he had seen. And so he simply denies, dodges, and avoids the questions, despite the awkward silences that come after. It's no better when she talks about her life, he can't force himself to care about juvenile crushes and job changes and friends moving across town. There's a war out there, he wants to say. Why does any of this matter?

He sees it in the way that he prefers to spend time on base with his company members instead of civilians. He has nothing against his old friends, nothing against his family or Steph, but there are comments that they wouldn't catch, moments that mean nothing to them. And conversely, he sees that there are moments they share that he is excluded from because he wasn't there when it happened, in-jokes he isn't a part of, stories where everyone is laughing but him.

And finally, he sees the changes that have happened to him in the way that he's never able to fully let go of that distrust that he built in Afghanistan. A car moves too fast on the street and he drops into a crouch, his heart pounding, his fingers fumbling for the rifle that isn't there. A streetlight flickers, casting shadows, and he's up against the wall, trying to discern where the shooters are, how many of them, and which way he should move.

The home that Private James Carter wanted to come back to no longer exists for him, he realizes.  And so, a few weeks later, he makes a decision, and returns to the only world he knows.

"I have to go, Stephanie. I don't belong here anymore, and when I'm home, I'm simply... waiting, I guess. The world keeps turning, and I'm here, but I'm not really a part of it. I don't know if I'll ever be a part of it anymore."

"I don't want you to go," she says, and then sighs. "But I see why you think you have to. I'll miss you, James."

"I'll be back, Stephanie," he responds, even though he doesn't know if he really wants to be. Because home isn't the place he thought it was anymore.

She steps forward and his arms wrap around her in one last bear hug, but there are no promises this time, no pinky swears that he won't ever change.

Just a fierce hug, an uncertain future.


//

A/N: This week, I wrote with thaliontholwen who was a pleasure to work with. I've always been a fan of her style, and I had a lot of fun writing with her. Her entry is linked at the top and is here, and should have been read before mine.

i really enjoyed writing this, as I feel the subject matter is something that I haven't touched on much, or even seen much. At the same time, I hope it comes across as fairly realistic, because I have a limited experience with war (thankfully), so this was mostly based on memoirs that I've read and a few conversations I've had with those who have served.

His name is Jeff and I meet him at the hospice where I volunteer. Where I am simply there to listen — a ghost, essentially, taking in the stories of those who would inevitably lose their fight against death — Jeff is the resident photographer.



The first time we meet, he is sporting a blue tie, purple dress shirt, and a DSLR camera. I find his gaudy clothing somewhat jarring for this place, and I ask him what the camera is for. This is his response:



“I take pictures of the living dead – and I ask them to smile.”



Every week, Jeff comes in and talks to the residents of the hospice, one by one, asking them how their days are going and if their family has come to see them recently; he spends extra time with those who haven’t had visitors. He takes special note of two groups: those that have just come in, and those that are about to go. For those that have recently been admitted, their first meeting is a trust-building session, where he tells them that he is a photographer and asks about their lives, sharing his own in the process. This sharing is something that most of regular staff steadfastly avoids, to minimize connecting to those who are about to pass away, but for Jeff, it’s a part of what he does. He knows the endings of the stories already, and he’s heard enough beginnings by now that they have started to run together, but it still affects him. From his swollen red eyes to the wet patches on his sleeves after these sessions, I know that he still cries for them.



For those that are about to take their final bows, Jeff has another request: a picture of them. Not a casual picture, shot and forgotten by disposable camera, but instead a full-fledged production. He explains to each patient that the set up for the shoot involves a make-up artist, multiple lightstands, and can take up to an hour… an hour of precious time, when time is rarest of all valuables at this stage in life. As if that weren’t enough, though, Jeff drops the bomb: for this picture, they can’t be on any of their medication — a sacrifice beyond belief, one no one else would ever ask of them.



Some turn him down right away. Their initial reactions, of course, are incredulous. Why invite the pain back in? Why remind themselves of their own decrepit form? Who would even want to look at such a picture? Some understand the request — for those that don’t, Jeff stays with them, explaining for as long as it takes why they should do this final photo shoot.



In the end, it isn’t for themselves, who have little left, but for those that they’re leaving behind. For their children and grandchildren, friends and family, the picture is a lasting reminder that they were alive and strong up to the end, that they did not go into the night with head bowed low, drugged into oblivion. Others’ pictures are displayed on the mantle of the hospice’s fireplace, a reminder to those that come after that they are not alone in their struggles. 



-



This photo shoot was the last day of Susan’s life. She was made up just enough to ease time’s wounds, but not so far as to try and hide her life experiences; you could still see the laugh lines of a happy life, though she hasn’t been using them lately. The lighting was set up, far gentler than the bright lights of a modeling studio, to accommodate her sensitive eyes. Jeff asks her to smile, and the shoot begins.



Sometimes, those that sit down for him have made their peace with those on Earth (and otherwise), and after a few minutes of pleasant chatter, offer a graceful smile. They are calm, at ease, and sit with a dignity befitting kings and queens.



For others, the road is far more difficult. When Jeff asks the brave men and women that sit for him to smile, he insists that it is a real smile. He knows that it’s difficult, that they’re hurting, and that sometimes it’s simply an effort to keep their eyes open, to not cry out as the pain ravages their body; he knows that they’re scared, but he won’t take a picture until he knows that the smile is genuine
.

Susan was one of those people. She was eighty years old and dying of cancer; she had beaten it once before, but when God rolled the dice again on her, forty years later, they came up snake eyes. When Jeff had first talked to her, she had agreed to sit for a portrait for her son and daughter, who had been visiting every day in the week that she had been released to hospice care. But after she put on that first fake smile, trembling from the pain, things had gone downhill and she was ready to leave, the most miserable she had ever been.



“This was a waste of time, and you don’t know what it feels like to be in my position, and I’m going to go back to my room and use my remaining time to…to…”



He never stops them if they insist on leaving, but instead tells them a story about the worst time of his life. Sometimes it’s about his parents as they approached the twilight of their lives, other times it’s about his own trials – the miscarriage his wife had, the times he had to dumpster-dive to feed his children. He asks them questions about what they would have done; he offers candid and truthful responses to their own philosophical issues, and bit by bit, he connects with them, until, at some point, he’ll see an opening in something he talks about. Maybe it reminds them about a pet they had, or a sport they played, or a loved one…and he’ll say, ‘do you regret those times?’ 


For Susan, Jeff’s breakthrough was in telling a story about the first fight that he and his wife ever had. He caught the wistful sigh at the end, when he told her of the single red rose he had left on her windshield the next morning as an apology, and asked her about the best date that her husband had ever taken her on. She started describing the Ferris wheel, what the lights of the county fair had looked below them…

And he asks, “Did you regret those times?”



She says, "No…" and smiles lightly, happy memories beating away the pain, and he waits for just a moment before clicking the shutter. Sometimes the smile wavers and disappears before he gets the shot… and then he starts on a different track, determined to find it again.



The act of smiling doesn’t change anything for her, or any of the others. It doesn’t make their disease or their death less easy to deal with, it doesn’t make them stronger people because there will be an eight by ten photograph of them with a smile on their face. They do not gain an extension on life or a magic understanding of the state of their soul.



But for many, it brings them closer to acceptance, because it shows them — and us — that there is always a meaningful choice in fighting to the end. They show a hidden inner strength when they declare with their actions that there is more to life than simply mitigating pain, even in the closing acts of their life. In Jeff’s work, Susan and others experience, for one small moment at the end of all things, the happiness that we all strive for from the moment we are born, and are immortalized with that happiness upon their face.



Their stories and their smiles are their last gift to us, the living.

These are the things he tries to think about.

The booming voice of the superintendent echoing across the field. “Upon the recommendation of the faculty and by the power vested in me by the Board of Education, you are now all high school graduates!” He cheers with the others, of course, screaming himself hoarse and hugging everyone in reach, but the true moment of passage is when he looks up and sees his dad crying in the stands – and then a wave of mortarboards hides him from view.

The feel of her hair against his face, one arm cradling her body close to him, the other growing numb under the weight of her head, though he hardly minds. He tilts his head, whispering into her ear, and he watches a smile grow before she turns to kiss him. He tries to recall the way they fit together, the way he watched the moonlight fall on her skin.

The smell of chorizo soup wafting through the house, a savory mixture of garlic, basil, and tomatoes that distracts him from the work he was doing. His fingers pause from their typing and he pushes the keyboard back, heading into the kitchen and leaning against the doorway. She stands there, biting her lower lip, concentration wrinkles across her forehead as she stirs the soup. He tiptoes in, trying not to distract her, until he wraps his arms around her and kisses her on the jawline. He remembers the shiver, the smile.

These are the things he tries not to think about.

The panic growing in him as he looks at the newest bill, warning him of a late fee on top of the already crippling bills. He doesn’t know whether he should tell her; she was in the hospital just a week ago, and she might not be ready for the news. She comes into the room, laughing at something a friend sent her, and he guiltily slides the bill under a pile of work papers, turning to smile wanly back at her. He’ll sell the manuscript, he thinks, and get them out of this.

The day that he comes back from the store and sees the Ford Explorer in the driveway. He didn’t know that Jason was going to be there; though their neighbor had been over often recently, he usually called ahead a day or so. Stepping into the living room, he shakes his head at the mess of clothes Jason had left on the couch, and heads upstairs. At the top of the stairs, he stops, hearing the voices. The sounds. The silence when the door swings open, his hand falling limply from the doorknob.

The moment in time he is in, sitting in the chair, the cold metal of the cap chilling his bare skull. The hard rubber of the mouth-guard is abrasive against his tongue and gums; he wonders how many deaths it takes to chew through one of them. The prosecutor stands and reads off the names of people he killed; he does not listen.

“Do you have any last words?”

He shakes his heads, numbly, and then, as the electricity courses through his body, he thinks of everything.

He clicked on the speaker system and said, “Thank you, Sharon, that’s all for today. I have good news for you, it’s been thirty-one days; tomorrow  is the last one, okay?”

The nude woman sitting on the bed nodded up at the camera and took two sleeping pills before lying down on the bed. It was a specially designed room, spartan and without anything that the subjects could cut themselves on. The bed was plastic, the sheets and covers chenille, and the walls themselves were padded with enough rubber foam to satisfy a mental institution.

Project Lead Jeffery Larkos observed her through the monitors for a few minutes, watching as her heartbeat and respirations slowed down, and then clapped the technician on the shoulder and went back to his office down the hall. He looked at all the medical journals on his desk and sighed tiredly, instead going over to the couch to sleep.

Finally, he thought, step three could proceed, and they would see if it was all worth it. After the Seattle incident, he had been given the research and testing laboratory, analyzing the properties of various viruses and their ability to penetrate the human skin. Everything came down to tomorrow.

---

“Sharon, you’re up already, I see,” he said, taking a seat in the monitor room.

“I couldn’t wait, Doctor – after all, today is the last day, and my husband and kids are outside, I hear, and…”

“Calm down, please, Sharon – this will only take a minute, and then we’ll be done.” He smiled back and motioned for her to stand still as the cameras and scanners examined her from every angle, checking for cuts and microcuts. Finding none, he says. “There’s a cylinder near the door. Wait until I give the signal, and then press the end with the arrow gently against your left arm, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Doc,” she said, doing a pirouette. Jeffrey took a deep breath, and then told the technician to activate stage one.

“Ebola sample A-2 diffusing into the room, Doctor.”

“If this doesn’t work, Dan, we’re dead,” Jeffrey remarked, eyes glued to the monitors. The newest weaponized version of airborne Ebola was noted for its 90% mortality rate and almost instant nature. Whoever had made it had removed the usual five to ten day incubation period, and made it almost universally lethal. This lab was designed to find out how readily it would diffuse through human skin.

“And…we’re at one minute, and negative contam.”

“Begin stage two.” Jeffrey said, and then pressed the speaker button. “Sharon, go ahead.”

Inside the room, Sharon put the canister to her arm gently, and it clicked, an extremely tiny needle puncturing her flesh, not even making enough of a hole to draw blood.

“Stage two commencing,” Jeffrey said tersely, and then returned to the monitor.

It wasn’t thirty seconds before it started. A deepening of the red at her lips, and then a blush into her cheeks…and then, all at once, cuts appearing on her body as her skin broke down. Her eyes, nose, mouth, ears…all her orifices were leaking blood, and she had only time to moan before collapsing on the floor.

“Test subject forty. Failure due to single entrance.”

In his head, he added, God help us.