Payment Enough

The Beginning of the End

I believe in the sun. I believe in the sun as a child believes in a fabled holiday character. I suppose it must seem foolish, but when living in a world of utter, endless gray, one hopes for a little light. So, yes, I long for the days when the sun seeks center stage in a cloudless sky above our dank trenches and throws its radiant beams onto my face; those warm, caressing hands that seem to heat my very soul. That tell me, for now, everything is fine. But only for now.

I slump against the wall, letting the dirt stain the back of my uniform. The sun didn't make its appearance today, as I had hoped it would. Nor will it tomorrow. Nor the day after that. Rain seems to have reigned supreme for the time being, though I hope it won't last long. The ground is sodden with mud, making trench life harder than it already is. At least it's let up to light drizzle. If I'm lucky, the clouds will roll away completely tomorrow morn. But when have I ever been as lucky?

A gang of young men gather to my left. They wear broad smiles and have shoulders to match. Their stance of eagerness is all too familiar. I look into their faces and almost recognize myself as I was not so long ago. I knew that smile all too well, that haughty laugh. One year ago, when I joined the ranks, they had been mine. Only one year... Only one year to turn a boy into an old man. Only one year to ruin a man's life.

I can't help but scoff at their foolishness and my lost innocence. I'd love to slap those boyish grins from their faces. Tell them what a horrible mistake they've made, tell them they shouldn't have come until they had to.

But I don't.

I only watch.

Their smiles will be gone soon enough without help from me.

I look away and allow my mind to drift back into a muddled surrealism. When I leave here, I'll live in a place where it never rains. When I leave here, I'll... I stop the thought from coming. It seems so dreadfully foreign now.

We've all stopped talking about life after the war. I suppose we think it best not to tempt the fates. It would be best to leave any thought of afterward unsaid than not be privileged enough to live it at all. This is war. It's far from the game we all thought it would be. Anything and everything is possible. We are not required to come out of it alive. That isn't part of our contract; it never was.

I've especially begun to think on this fact lately.

My entire world, everything I know, has become a living nightmare. Life for me is made to be miserable. I suppose if I do leave this war alive, I'll never be able to fully recover from the images that I know are permanently etched onto my mind.

Our homes are made in these trenches and foxholes. We pace our steps carefully and keep our heads down when we travel through them. Keeping one's head down becomes second nature when there's a chance of fatality if one does not comply.

I knew a man once. Poor James – he wasn't one of the lucky ones. A tall fellow, he was... Too tall. He stood straight for only a moment, a second, and they blew a hole through his brain. His mouth was still full of the sentence he was speaking when he fell against the dirt wall. And I stood there. With James's red blood spotting my clothes. Bearing witness to my comrade's demise.

My memory of his last seconds of life is all too vivid. I carry that memory, scare, if you rather, with me every night when I lay my head down to rest. I relive it in my dreams, when I do dream.

A mad laugh bubbles up in my throat, and I fight to keep it from surfacing. It makes me realize how little time I could have left. How little time we all could have left. The hairs on our heads are all counted; our seconds are numbered. My next breath could be my last.

I breathe in, filling my lungs, as if to see if it will really be my last.

I wait.

Nothing comes.

I can't help but feel as if nothing will ever come. Wouldn't death be better than this nothingness?

I silently scold myself for thinking such things. Death would not be better. Anything is better than death. How many people had I known that had killed themselves? Too many people to think about, if I wanted to sleep tonight. I saw the way people looked at their bloodied bodies and bruised necks, shaking their heads slowly, disapprovingly. "'These men took the coward's way out,'" they would say. '"It isn't fair to the rest of us that have too keep trooping through.'"

I would not be one of those men. No matter how afraid I really was. No matter how much I longed to be freed. No matter how much I had to pretend. No matter how much I had to make myself believe I would be fine in the end. I would not succumb to suicide.

But a small part of me, however small, knew that anything, even death, would be better than the life I was living in these trenches, the life I would live until the war was fought.

My mind begins to race with the thoughts that have pestered my mind for weeks. I struggle to push them away, but they are immovable. I need to get out. Now. I'm slowly being driven mad. I can feel it. I must get out while there's still a chance for me. A chance at living. Suddenly, there doesn't seem to be any other option. There is nothing before this moment, and there will be nothing after it unless I act. Suddenly what must be done is clear.

I push myself from the wall and begin walking. I make my way past huddled soldiers, some fresh faced, some on the brink of collapse. Do they know what I'm about to do? Can they see it in my eyes? I'm sure my face reveals my secret. If they did know, what would they do? Stop me? Shoot me for cowardice, perhaps? Maybe. But none of that is important now.

I walk until I find a secluded portion of the trench. Solemnly, I lean against the man-made wall. The night around me is still and silent. It's almost peaceful. Almost.

I breathe rhythmically and do my best to calm myself. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut, I tilt my face upward. When I open them again, the sky looks like black velvet littered with tiny diamonds. "God," I whisper, finding a voice that sounds unfamiliar to me. "Give me strength. Forgive me."

I reach into my coat pocket and withdraw a single cigarette and a match. I strike the match against my pants leg and light the cigarette. Placing it between my lips, I take a deep drag. For a moment, my mind clears and I am able to control my nerves.

Slowly, lit match in hand, I raise my right arm. My eyes shut instinctively and I grit my teeth. I raise my hand high above the trench wall. I raise it high enough for the men across No Man's Land to see the match light flickering in the dark.

A whimper escapes my otherwise sealed lips. I am a coward.

I wait.

A single gunshot breaks the stillness of the night.

Pain ricochets through my body.

I believe in the sun. I believe in the sun as a child believes in a fabled holiday character. I will see the sun again. I will feel its warm rays beating down on my face. I will bask in its glow for days to come. There is no longer any doubt of unknowable time. I will not die in the trenches. The scares will always remain; there will be sleepless nights, but I will not die in the trenches. My right hand was payment enough for that.