Everything constitutes war if you find the right reasons. Even the most honest man will accept to take down an entire city just to embody victory against oppression, lest he does believe in an oppression in the first place.
I clench my weapon, I don't sweat. I cling on to it like a survival rope, hundreds of feet in the air. I look at her, I look back at my rifle. A dichotomy, a parcel of who I am. My name is not engraved in it, yet I own it. I own it, yet it possesses me. I thought after the war I would be more of a stern man, turns out I act more cowardly than ever before. My heart pounds, I can feel it. I sleep with an active drumset in my chest and wake up with a death metal vocalist in my head.
"Give it time", Gloria asks of me.
"Seriously, it's my first in a long time."
"Take it easy. One step at a time, like we used to."
Supportive, once again. Right again, she is. I'm on top of the hill, the view is clear, no cloud no obstacle. Yet I shake, I wither, remembering the times past. I try to manage some focus to actually shoot the target and not an innocent pregnant lady. It's bursting into my skull.
"Give me the meth."
Gloria hands me the drug, and against my will, again I do a line. It helps me focus and when I pull the trigger, it helps me forget I just took the life of an honest man who simply made a mistake. Bloodshot eyes, no mirror but I know, from experience, there's no white in there. It's covered in red. I maintain contact, checking the visibility, the wind, the air resistance, and the ballistic overall seems fine. I take one last deep breath. The sounds I hear are the noises I once tried to forget. I press the trigger, slowly, silently, and it goes dead quiet, I don't hear a thing. I go deaf. There is no heartbeat in this realm, no oxygen is being permuted into carbon dioxide. I'm not even on the hill anymore, I can see myself alongside the target. The man is not moving. I stare as if I wasn't the grim reaper, his ultimate downfall. This is it. The release. I edge the situation five more seconds, the sound of the bullet leaving my weapon brings me back to reality.
By the time I look through the scope, he's gone. There it is, the fear, confusion and scattering of the crowd. I hide, panting nervously. Gloria, as I look up, stares down at me, almost with compassion.
"When you're done, breath in, breath out, drop your weapon and count to five."
I do all of it and grab her hand, I really do need her.
We make our way back to the forest which has a large circular spot without any trees. The grass is pure, clean and not too high, not too short. We bury our fallen friends, teammates and soldiers, here. Today they called me to use my power, my gift. I put up my index and middle finger and get a knee on the floor, facing a tombstone. I put my fingers on the grave and focus until a violent shock fires up at me.
"It was hot, sir. He's gone. Down below, all the way down."
The man on the wheelchair wearing a suit does not seem to apprehend the revelation well, his friend died.
"You're telling me he went to hell? My own brother?"
"I'm a messenger, not a judge. I see what it is, I don't make people go one way or another."
"He's been praying, Ismael."
"I know. I've seen him pray a few times."
"Your eyes, did you succeed?"
"I did, sir. I do have an external target, though."
"That's fine. Glad to hear your mission went well. Who's the man you want to exterminate?"
"Mateni Tarima. Friend of mine. He has become, throughout the years, an unspeakable character. Selling weapons to kids and rebels."
"Fine. It's the other ones I would tell you to be careful about."
"Absolutely. I don't even have a plan, I just...carry hatred. Hoping it will tunnel vision me into success."
"Well, when you aim. You aim straight. You carry a pill just in case. Always remember that for us snipers, we bring death from afar, which is why it comes back at us so fast."
"I'll remember it, Jones."
"Before you go. Mateni recently changed his pathway, some of us saw him around the south eastern islands, tropical sea. If you're still up to no good, set yourself up for psychological warfare."
Left with Gloria, who bowed down a little to show respect, eyes closed. It's true what they say, you don't escape Cressenie without a warrant, but the warrant can be a last will. I don't remember striving that much for so little. Doped up for a mission so easy, I've fallen lower than I previously thought.
"You still haven't become addicted, that shows the strength that you have."
"I feel bad, being carried so much. Aside all that, how are you feeling the speech of tomorrow?"
"Really bad. It's not me though, it's them. I just know my proposition will be rejected, but I have to try. I can only be as strong as I think I am."
"Since the bench, I still have no idea where you obtained that confidence."
"My mom wanted me to swim, she pushed me into the sea. Told me to stay quiet about it and not cry. She wanted me to know how to defend myself. So she organized a bullet party as she calls it, not real bullets but still, hurt like hell. Tough mother, even tougher father. But he was respectable. true to his word and proud. The confidence I have stems from trying so hard to live up to their expectations. And you provide and protect for both of us, I have to do my part as well. You keep mentionning the bench as if it was your earliest memory."
"It is".
We went back home and I prayed for my wife to do well at her job tomorrow. Perhaps I should pray to also not end up in a grave. The gift is mine. I die, it dies with me, and nobody knows where I go.