A Series Of One-Shots [REQUESTS OPEN]

The Child Soldier [not LGBTQ+]

Original story - 2014

Gen, written for another competition. 

Once again, dark. 16 year old me was angsty as hell.

*

He looked down to the pistol in the palm of his hand and back up to the two bodies on the ground in front of him. His mouth was sandpaper-dry and agape, as though he was unable to shut it. Chaos ensued around him, screaming from innocent bystanders and his wife hunched over the two small bodies, sobbing profusely.

"I..." he tried to start, but whatever words he was about to utter died in his throat as the sight of a motionless figure that caught his eye. Beyond the bodies and his wife, in amongst the throngs of frantic people, was a small boy of around ten staring at him with wide, condemning brown eyes.  His skin was sun kissed and he was obviously painfully underfed.

He was the boy that the man could never get out of his head.

He looked back down to the bodies. Two small children lay there in a river of their own blood, a boy and a girl. The girl couldn't be more than thirteen and the boy barely a day past eight. Their blue eyes were wide open and averted towards him, shooting through his demeanour just like the bullets that penetrated their skulls.

"You did this!" his wife screamed, face red and eyes murderous. He looked back down to his hands again. This time, the gun was gone and replaced with red spilling out over his fingers. He looked on in horror as his hands were flooded with the blood of his victims.

That was when he woke, heart racing and cry lost within him as he sat up. He dragged a shaking hand across his flushed face and letting out an unsteady breath. He looked to his left to see his wife lying there, peacefully asleep and completely unaware to the terror she had just featured in. He silently placed his feet on the floor and padded across the scratchy carpet to the hall. He opened the door to his left, relieved but not surprised to see the gentle rise and fall of his daughter's chest. Closing the door behind him, he proceeded to check the room on the right. Instead of the calming sight of his son's sleeping face, he was met with wide eyes.

"Daddy," the little boy murmured, still half asleep, "did you have another nightmare?"

"Yeah," the man gulped, smacking his lips together and looking back up and the small boy peering curiously at him, "I did. Go back to sleep, okay?"

He doesn't wait to see if his son followed his orders, shutting the door behind him and making his way to the bathroom. With a flick of a switch, the bathroom is flooded with a fluorescent light that pains his eyes. He twisted the tap on and studied the reflection in the mirror as the sink filled up. Tired would be the word to describe his appearance. Tired, drained, dead. His once blue eyes had dulled to a gloomy grey and were sunken into his skull – hideously highlighted by the black marks that patently exposed his lack of sleep. His hairline had receded and turned a murky grey, much like his eyes. He looked lifeless, inwardly deceased.

Life continued on as normal as it could. He went through the fundamental motions of an active member of society. He ate meals with his family, he brought his children to and from school, and he tried to be a loving family man. But it was all a terrible lie and each of those actions proved to be too much of a strain. Especially due to the fact that everywhere he turned he was certain that he saw the small boy with the brown eyes. It was only for a split second every time, but it was enough to make him extremely paranoid. He knew he was being ridiculous; no way could that boy follow him, it wasn't possible. But yet, there the boy was at every corner.

The dreams never ceased, in fact, they got progressively worse. Now his wife slept in the spare room so that she wouldn't hear the worst of his cries through the night. The dream would always contain the same basics, his two children dead at his feet and the little boy with the brown eyes silently judging him, standing out amongst the horror. Occasionally, it changed. Sometimes it would take place in the middle of a city, sometimes it would be in a field and sometimes it wouldn't be anywhere in particular – an unidentifiable wasteland. More often than not, another man would be present. He would always be bleeding abundantly, begging for the man with the gun to stop the nonsense, just before he shot mechanically at his own children.

Bang.

Dead.

Bang.

Dead.

It didn't take him long to resort to slinking down to the kitchen at night and cracking open a can of beer or pouring himself a few glasses of whiskey. That self destructive cycle sustained for a considerable amount of time. He would go through the painstaking, but necessary, motions throughout the day, kiss his children and wife goodnight and go down to the kitchen to drown his sorrows.

It was one faithful evening, on the 4th February 2013, that he remembered the gun in the attic. It had been his grandfathers, who had served in the British army prior to him. It was old, dusty but still fully functioning. That night, he slumped in his chair, a glass of vodka resting in his palm and the gun at the other side of the table. He didn't even bother to look when a glimpse of tanned skin flashed by his left hand side. Instead, he downed the glass and winced as the burning liquid flooded his throat.

He filled the glass up again and cursed when he saw that the bottle was empty. With a sigh, he raised the glass to the boy who was standing in front of him now. Then again, he couldn't be sure if what he was seeing was the boy at all. His vision was blurred and his head was swimming. It could have been a broom in front of him, but he just saw a thin, tanned figure.

"To your good health!" he mumbled, lowering the raised glass to his lips and taking another gulp. He laughed bitterly, slamming the glass on the table. "Health," he repeated viciously, manic laughter rising in his throat. He reached for the gun, twiddling it around in his hands and grinning down at it.

The next motions weren't so basic, or contributed to him being an active member of society, but they were of his own accord and certainly were a lot easier to perform.

Bang.

Dead.

Afghanistan, September 4th 2012.

"Sebastian!" he roared, watching his comrade fall from the impact of the great blast. Pandemonium was going on all around them. Man fighting against man, blood spattered across every face and yells of despair echoing through the sound of gunshots.

"John..." the man croaked out, rather pathetically. He pressed a hand to his side, in a feeble attempt to stop the bleeding.

John ran, disregarding the bullets flying in every direction. A piercing pain rocketed through his hip as he fell forward. The urge to vomit was enormous, but he managed to keep it down and keep a clear head as he frenetically looked around for his comrade.

A boy, no more than ten years of age, came on the scene, a large gun cradled in his chopstick-thin arms. His face was set in a rigid expression as he came toward Sebastian, who was ineffectively scrambling for his disarmed firearm.  John didn't even have the privilege to even think about his actions. He just simply did them. He swung his arm around and, ignoring the blinding pain in his hip, aimed and fired.

Bang.

Dead.

The boy never knew what hit him.

Neither did John, really.