Tears Mean Weakness

PROLOGUE

I had seen it up close, once before. Something so rare that I was almost scared when it happened...
My father was the Sergeant Major of the Army Base, the place where I had lived all my life. If my father had his way, it would be my death place too. My family was small, just the three of us: my Mom, my father and me. I knew that my father hadn't been thrilled by my arrival, especially as I turned out to be female. He had dreamed of a strapping son, someone he could train, build up and some day send off to the army. However when I came along, he decided he would not be humiliated by a weakling of a daughter, and so all of the plans made for his son, were carried out with me instead.

My father's training programme did not come as a shock to my system, as soon as I took my first steps it was in motion. Exercise classes every morning; field work every afternoon - and little break in between. Most of the girls in my school were not soldiers. They wore dresses, skirts and make-up, given to them by their older sisters. I was polar opposite! I wore shorts, t-shirts and I couldn't have cared less about my appearance.

Being the Sergeant's daughter earned you a lot of respect at school, especially from boys. On the contrary, the girls weren't quite so easy. Wrong clothes, wrong look, wrong build. Having training every day, made your body solid, pushed it to the breaking point. I was flexible too, I had to be.
"You can't dodge a bullet standing straight," my father had said. I could twist my body like an elastic band. Fold in half, make my back into a curve; cartwheel; flip; trick; and do the splits.
Despite, my impressive collection of tricks, this didn't gain respect from the girls, it gained jealousy. My father said never to worry about the girls, that they were weak and useless - and wouldn't be able to save themselves if they tried. My Mom always said to try and fit in with them, take interest in what they like; wear; talk about, etc. And so, I didn't know who to listen to. Deep down I knew they were both right, but in completely different ways.
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I spent years listening to my father, only betraying him to obey my mother - and vice versa. Both of my parents were different, wanted different things, thought different thoughts, dreamed different dreams, and had only one thing in common - me. In the days of pre-school, I was too young to understand the difference between a happy marriage, and an unhappy one.
And so I just assumed that every relationship was the same.

I assumed wrong. My parents argued back and forth, and only when I did reach a certain age, I realised that it was not a common affair with every marriage to constantly be at an impasse with your spouse.

My father was busy, my mother depressed, me : caught in the middle. I could see that each day, my Mom was becoming more and more fed up. She became grave, and lifeless, to a point where she just sat in her chair all day, not moving, even diminutively. It gave me a sensation of indigestion to see her like this. But I wasn't allowed to worry about her, according to my father's rules.
I continued each day to train, to learn, to practice and to worry about my Mom; silently scolding myself for disobeying Father. Until it came to a point where I couldn't take it anymore. And neither could my Mom.

I came home to an empty house one evening, no Mom or Father to be seen. However, I went out running with the rest of the trainees as my father would have instructed. As I ran alongside the boys, I pushed all of the worries regarding my Mom, and where she was, my father, and where he was - until I got home.

My father sat in my mother's chair, staring at the wall, expressionless.
"Where's my Mother?" I asked him, though I feared I already knew the answer.
My father just shook his head, and that for me was confirmation that my suspicions had been correct.
" I tried to save her, they did all they could, but it was too late, Lola. We were far too late," he whispered.
The pain was unfamiliar, partly shock, but not really shock because I could see the state my mother was in. It was partly anger towards my father, for not treating her better, making her feel happier, but then I began to wonder if anything father did would've saved her.
Maybe he was right, maybe she was gone years ago, she had just been too afraid.
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Later that night, I lay in my bunk bed, salty tears dripping down my face. My father entered the room. He took a glance in my direction and began to speak as he paced up and down.
"Lola, I can imagine that you are filled with great sadness, however you have been trained to be strong. Your mother... she chose the easy way out of her struggles, and she should not be pitied for that. She was not a soldier, but you are. And tears Lola," he said looking at my soaking face, "tears show weakness. You have been trained to get over your weaknesses. Do I make myself clear, Soldier?" His voice was stern, serious and he spoke in monotone. I had never called my father 'dad' or even 'father' to his face before. I felt great hatred towards him at this particular moment, how could he not miss her? He didn't even seem remotely sad. However, lying here in my bunk, with tears leaking down my cheeks and my father standing in front of me, I could not confront him with my questions. After one incident of talking back to my father, he'd told me,
" Rebelliousness in a Soldier - is disrespect within a Soldier."
It was taking everything I had not to collapse into screams of sorrow, cry until I thought I could never have any water in my body again. But I knew that this would show great weakness, and get me into trouble. And so I simply replied with one sentence, which was about as varied as conversations with my father went.
"Yes, Sir," I whispered. I couldn't dare to look away from him. I sat straight as a board and terrified as I looked my father straight in the face. He nodded and walked out, pausing at the door.
"At ease, Soldier," he said - and then he was gone.
Despite how much he scared me, and how much I currently wanted to despise him, I couldn't resist peeking through my father's bedroom door that evening.

He sat on the edge of his bed, my mothers photograph in his hand, and one single tear dripping down his face.
Something so rare that I was almost scared when it happened...

I continued to train, every day, taking just one day off to attend my mother's funeral,(a whole day of trying to hold it together in fear of what my father would say if I cried).
After the funeral I lay in bed at home, daydreaming, thinking of mother in her chair, staring into space, blank and lifeless.
My father entered, yet again, and without any hint of joke said
"I do believe that 4:30 is the time you are supposed to be on the field, Soldier?" I nodded. " It's 4:25, get moving," he ordered.
"Yes, Sir."
And that was it, I was expected to move on from my mother, never think of her and continue to obey my father. As now that my Mom was dead, I had no reason to disobey my father anymore.
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As I ran along the track, alongside all of the boys, I struggled to see two steps in front of me, tears blurring my vision. I blinked them away before they could leak past my eyelids, and all the time kept telling myself,
"Tears show weakness - and weakness is forbidden."