The white capsules sat in the flesh of his palm. The doc said he only needed two.
It’s four in the morning. No one would ever see, no one would ever know.
But for the first time in weeks, he hesitates.
This is nothing new.
( . . . )
The odds have always weighed against him, the pressure deliberate, familiar. Like the July heat that had once clung to his neck as they made their way through the marshes. Like the way sleep has become a stranger’s notion. Like the way the mattress no longer holds the silhouette of his form.
The only difference: he’s too numb to feel it.
He’s a ghost, if anything. A shell of a landmine. The rubble, the lost causes, the letters engraved on the chain around his neck are all that’s left to his name.
There’s a boy now in the house. He has her eyes, her sensibilities, his flesh and blood. “Jihoon” fumbles out with difficulty, as if he’s still processing the gravity of this situation. A son. He has a son. But he’s not a father. Not in the way that he wants. Conversation is clipped, kept to the bare minimum. The understanding is mutual.
He’s a soldier, a man whose fingers have been stained plenty. He’s a hero, a miracle, a blessing. He’s all rough edges. He’s thick skinned. He’s battered and bruised. A relic of a past that should have long been forgotten. He’s a monster, still fighting, when the world has learned to let go. Bravery no longer means anything.
Worthless. The walls remind him, no longer the color he remembers that they used to be. The papers. The medals. The bodies sent back home. The flag that rises with the morning sun. Nothing but deadweight.
Not a father. Not a father.
Not anything.
He looks at the pills again.
The day begins and ends by her side. The same thick tangle of hair, the same lingering smell of lavender. Time took its toll on everyone over the years, but it treated her much kinder than most. He hadn’t. There’s mountains between them. But he’s no longer sure if he has the strength to climb over one more. He’s no longer capable of being tender, not the way he used to be. Something else rises in him when he looks at her. Part question, part knowing better than to ask.
He wishes it was apathy.
The chances aren’t all that high. Losses like his are negligible. He’s just a body, a bag of bones. It’s been tried and tested. Line them all up on the empty field, one by one. Pull the trigger. Let the poppies bloom red. It only hurts this once.
The only difference: this wouldn’t hurt at all.
( . . . )
The white capsules sat in the flesh of his palm. The doc said he only needed two.
It’s four in the morning. No one would ever see, no one would ever know.
But he puts them down. Back into the bottle, the lid screwed tight.
This is nothing new.
This won’t be the last time.
