One Bullet

Reprimanded

"What were two thinking?" Richardson exclaimed at Anthony's bruised face and at my spitting out blood into the nearby trash can. "Don't you realize that you'll be going on a mission tomorrow? This sort of behavior would not have come unpunished if you had not have your current positions. Think twice before you get into a mess like this. I need all my soldiers in tip top shape before going out on the field."

Reginald ran his hand through his hair as he paced. "God, I feel like a parent coming in for his child at the principal's office...," he muttered, exasperated. He had flown all the way from the CIA base just to check up on us. More specifically, me.

"Yes, sir," Anthony replied stiffly to the General. I beat him up pretty good in the mess hall, apparently... But with slight consequence. I'd be referring to my condition of coughing up blood.

Richardson shook his head in exasperation. "Dismissed," he sighed.

The three of us--Reginald, Anthony, and me--walked out simultaneously. Out of the office, Anthony stomped off toward his quarters, muttering a string of profanities on the way. I laughed to myself.

"It's unbelievable to hear you laugh," Reginald said out of the blue, running his fingers through his ruffled hair. He looked tired.

I looked at him incredulously. "What do you mean?"

He sighed. "I mean, up until now, I didn't know you actually had... Emotion," he explained.

I was a bit taken aback by his statement. Come to think about it, I've barely conveyed any sort of emotion whilst telling my story. My words are rather flat. I tilted my head back, watching the stars as we walked toward my living quarters. "I suppose it's because all my life, I've taught my self to just not care," I murmured after moments of silence.

"Why is that?" Reginald asked softly. The air seemed very light, undisturbed. We didn't dare raise our voices.

"Because I don't want to feel anymore pain than I already have," I replied simply, looking at him with eyes of that eight-year-old girl who witnessed the murder of her own mother. It quickly dissolved into my usual, emotionless expression as I turned away.

Reginald's fingers brushed mine. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

I shrugged it off and continued toward my tent. I suppose it'd be safe to say that, after twelve years, I cried myself to sleep for the first time. However, I didn't feel any guilt or sorrow in the morning because those tears--the very things that symbolize my weakness--made me stronger.