I've seen enough death to understand how fragile humanity is. But I've also witnessed enough of the world to know how resilient life is. Every living organism on earth is designed to endure despite the odds.
While searching for survivors in a land devastated by drone warfare, I stumbled upon a patch of chamomile flowers that the bombs had missed. I've seen a man crawling from the ashes of a burning village, dragging his charred legs behind him. I've heard the wail of a woman limping through the streets of Samangan, holding a dead infant to her chest, whose only crime was being born female.
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I've seen a boy drinking runoff water from a chemical weapons plant, knowing it would kill him, but too thirsty to resist. I've carried one of my brothers out of a cave, promising he'd make it home to see his wife and meet his newborn daughter.
Survival is necessary. It can be beautiful. It can also be tragic, and unbearably difficult to watch. It is our ideologies, our greed, our desire for expansion and domination that result in the decimation of innocent lives. It is the evilness of man that plagues humanity. These men press a button, and cities are reduced to ashes. These men sit in a war room, and direct children into battle.
When I enlisted, I wasn't old enough to vote, but I could shoot a gun. When I joined FORECON, I wasn't old enough to drink, but I could wreak havoc on a hostile's psyche. I could wield a sniper rifle. I could camp in a desert for days, and order an airstrike.
But I didn't fight for the men in the war room.
I fought so that maybe—just maybe—the cities wouldn't burn. I fought so the woman wouldn't be subjugated to her husband's wrath. I fought so the boy would have access to clean drinking water, and a place to recover from the cold. I left the Marines, but the fight hasn't ended. I believe humans have certain inalienable rights, children most of all.
Josephine Allard-Reeves had her rights stolen from her. She was stripped of her bodily autonomy. Her innocence was pilfered. Wolfe dug his fingers into her brain, and molded it to his liking. He conditioned her trauma response. He made it so Josephine can't even speak about the abuse without her throat closing. She may not realize it, but her reasons for keeping this secret don't stem from her own cognition. Jo said she doesn't want to be a victim, or a burden. She is determined to overcome, to survive.
Albert Wolfe is a sick individual, but he's a smart predator. He knew what he was doing when he repeated those words to her. He planted them so deeply in her undeveloped subconscious, Josephine thinks they're her own ideals. And in doing so, Wolfe ensured he'd remain untouched by consequence.
"A little to the left, Josie," the photographer murmurs, lying flat on the floor to get her shot. "Perfect."
Josephine leans back against the foot of the bed, tilting her head to the left. She fiddles with the gold chain around her neck, adjusting the fit so the necklace slides between her exposed breasts. She stares into the camera lens, her eyelids drooping with seduction. She licks her maroon lips, adding a shine to the plump flesh.
