I Am Annika

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Thinking and acting are two very different things.

Taking a life falls under this rule. You can say what you want, promise yourself that you can do it. You can hold a gun in your hand, and tell yourself that all it really is is pressing the trigger. You can imagine each gorey detail in your mind until it's burned into the back of your eyelids. In your head, it's fine. It's as easy as saying the alphabet.

But in reality, it scars you. Nothing, nothing can prepare you for ending someone's life. At first, it seems simple; that person just died. But as time goes on, you start to wonder. What were they like? What did their laugh sound like? Had they had a loving family?
You carry them around with you, in your heart, in your mind. No matter how many times you wash your hands, or scrub them raw, the blood never comes off.

I don't like killing. I don't like throwing lives away.

Here, in the government, that is a gaping flaw. One that can be fixed, but one nonetheless.

They tried to fix me. Back when I first woke up. They had proudly handed me a gun, shoving me into a room with a man. He looked horrible. His skin was pale, and it looked too tight, as if there wasn't enough to go around. His hair, grey and missing in patches, was greasy and tangled. He smelled like death.

The gun had felt so natural in my hand. Like it was an extension of me, a deadly add on. The man had looked up at me from the floor, too weak to stand. He had looked...afraid. Seeing his look, I had backed up, pounded at the door, screamed that no, I couldn't do this.

They wouldn't let me out, they said, until that man was dead. For hours I had sat, watching the man as he watched me. We never said anything, never exchanged any words. I had the gun clenched in my hand, the only thing that seemed to fit.

I was battling myself. Part of me just wanted to leave and forget, but another part of me knew; you can't leave without the feeling. The feeling that I was a killer.

"I'm sorry," I had said. The words had bounced around the rooming, echoing back and slapping me. The man simply sat still, eyes closed. I bit my lip, pressing down until I felt the coppery taste of blood. At least it was mine.

I had raised the gun, aiming in such away that death would be upon him in seconds.

They had let me out, after that. They had quietly led me away from that room, from the body. They were less than impressed, they had said. They expected more.

"Why?" I asked. Why had I been forced to kill that man? What had he done? What crimes had he commited?

"Because," they had said, "we need to see where your loyalties lie." I had said nothing at this, only feeling the beating of my heart and feeling guilty that I had stopped another.

"What had he done?" I whispered, looking around me at the anonymous faces in white coats. No one answered at first, distaste at my asking questions.

"His son was was a suspected rebel." A voice answered, breaking the silence. I doubled over, a wave of nausea and guilt washing over me.

"His son? He didn't do anything! And you didn't...you didn't even know for sure. I killed him!" I had yelled, horrified with them, myself, this place.

"You did. And not fast enough, at that." That same voice. My breaths were shaky. I felt violent, and betrayed, and...bad. I was bad.

I was a monster.

That day, I became a killer. And once you get blood on your hands, you can never go back.