Time Bombs

chapter two

J A C Q U E L I N E

    IT'S quite funny how things are moving at such an alarming rate. Funny if you laugh at the face of death, considering our impending doom. Funny if you think the city of San Francisco can spend the rest of the year pretending the world wasn't at war. Funny if you liked to pretend you weren't going to die at any given moment.

It wasn't always like that. It's just that the world's greatest powers decided that if they wanted to fight, everyone else had to be dragged into it, too.

"Join my Revenge Party!" the Americans said after Pearl Harbor, and that was when I began to grow a dislike for parties. The Japanese, of course, made a promise to defend us against the western invaders, but any civilian with half a brain knows the word defend is code for "take you over and give you hell while we're at it". They say war is all about taking sides, and while there's truth in that, the only side I'm on is mine. Could you blame me?

"Hello, Earth to Jacqueline?" Adela says, abruptly putting a halt to the inner monologue I didn't realize I was having. Or maybe I was aware, I just didn't seem to see the importance of new dresses these days due to fabric rationing.

"Did you hear anything I said?" she asks, taking a final bite from her slice of cake. The people in Bataan were practically starving, and yet here we were, eating cake, of all things. Everyday I find new ways to disgust myself. Still, I don't feel like lying to anyone today, so I say, "no, Adela, I zoned out again, sorry."

"Let me guess," she says. "Another existential crisis?"

I sigh. "Actually, midlife crisis sounds more appropriate. I don't think this war is gonna let me live past twenty two."

"Jacqueline Valente, ever the pessimist," she remarks, and I correct her by saying, "realist."

"You know what?" she says. "Maybe you should spend some time alone. You keep zoning out on people, you look like some time to your thoughts is what you need."
"But, Adela, I can't stand my own thoughts! Do you know how whiny I sound?"

"Yes, that's exactly why I want you to keep those thoughts to yourself. And if they're being too loud, write. I'm sure your ancient typewriter's keys are far louder than the Jacquelines bickering in your head."

"Mhm, you do have a point," I say.

"I know I do," she adds.

"Sorry I was being such a sub par friend today, Adela."

"It's alright, J. You're a Valente. This war should affect your family the most out of everyone in San Francisco. Anyway, I'm heading out. Better leave you to it. Hasta pronto, Jacqueline," Adela says, getting up from her seat and kissing my cheek in the process. If I don't make it up to her soon, I might as well get used to having no one around.

"Hasta pronto," I repeat.

Now, where did I leave the typewriter again?

1530 Hours
The Attic

     BAD decisions left and right. If you could describe Sebastian Valente's life as brief as possible, that would be it.

"Can you hear me?" he says. "Hold two fingers up if you can."

The stranger struggles to keep his eyes open, but manages to hold his index and middle finger up. A symbol of peace. Churchill's V for Victory.

"Listen, I brought you here because . . . because . . ." Sebastian trails off. Oh, bollocks, why exactly did he bring him to the attic? "The point is, you're at my mercy right now, and if you do anything to cross the line, consider yourself good as dead."

With the way things were looking, the stranger might as well be. He was an amalgamation of unruly tufts of hair matted to human flesh by a combination of sweat and blood. His grime covered face made him look as though he'd spent an entire lifetime out in the wilderness. It was almost impossible to tell what the young stranger truly looked like.

The stranger.

The American.

Only that part remained clear as day. His tattered uniform clung to his body with the last remaining pieces of thread, as his chest rose and fell with each rattling breath. He was in such bad shape, even breathing proved to be an arduous task.

"I'll come up here once a day to bring you food. There's a bucket in the back, if you feel the need to use it. We'll get you cleaned up tomorrow. For now, get some rest, and don't make a sound."

The stranger could only tilt his chin in response. Among other things, the war made him realize that cushioned mattresses were a luxury. To be resting on one right now felt like a privilege, and it felt like one he didn't deserve.

Sebastian gives him a final once over, and says, "I'll call the army when you're ready–"

"No, don't," the American coughs. "Please don't call the army." Each word seemed like a monumental leap, but this he had to say. He couldn't not mention it.

"Are you some kind of fugitive?" Sebastian inquires, which only garners the response of three blinks. He'll try again tomorrow, maybe. "I expect a proper explanation by the time you've cleaned up, soldier."

The soldier could only manage to croak out a meager "yes, sir." before he heard the metal lock click.

He forgot to ask for his savior's name.

He forgot to tell him his own name.

What was his name anyway? He figured it didn't seem to matter anymore after everyone started calling him 'Private'.

And so it was him, a bucket, and a rusty black typewriter by the room's sole window.