He storms into the bathroom, feeling up-most horrible about himself. This boy, no, man looks at his reflection in through the cracked mirror. Hastily, he washes his hands; trying his best to wipe the blood off them. This isn't right. He thinks. This isn't natural. Hurting people like this, I don't think I can do it anymore. He tries to fight the tears threatening to spill from his eyes but he can't. Eventually he gives up; just like his friends always say he does. A soft and emotionless voice plays in his head involuntarily. We have to do this. It's the only way. Not long after, another a strong and demeaning tone enters his brain in pursuit of the other thought. Do you want to end up like him? Do you want to be beaten down like him? Because this is what they're going to do to us if we don't do it first!
As he peers into the mirror he can only see that shaggy blood stained blonde hair and green eyes not showing any weakness, even though they all knew he was screaming inside. They found him in the bushes to the right of their camp. When they captured him, he didn't think that they'd be beating the absolute Hell out of him. Sure he was listening to their battle plans but he didn't deserve this.
The man in the bathroom wipes his face of tears and ends up with a blood streak across his face, worst thing is; it isn't his. He can't do it anymore, he hates hurting people. Hurting people is worse than being hurt yourself. Seeing the look on their face as you continue to hit them is even worse than death. It's such hopelessness, they don't believe they're going to live and they are shocked with each passing moment that they're alive.
He runs a a hand through his hair. It's getting longer. He hasn't cut it in a few months, not since the war. I should tell someone to do that for me. He thinks. He sits on the toilet seat and rests his forehead against the palms of his hands. He sighs and tries to pull himself together, at least enough to go outside. He wipes the tears away again with a tissue as well as the blood on his face. Taking a deep breath to steady himself he focuses on the small cracked window of the bathroom. The birds chirping have always made him happy. He laughs a nervous and watery laugh because of his past tears; it almost makes him sound like he's drowning. There is a strong pound at the door that makes him jump.
"Are you alright in there? You've been in there for a while." It asks. "Come on, we need to get down to business."
"I'm alright." He lies. "I-I'm just not feeling to well."
There is silence.
"It's the prisoner isn't it?" The voice on the other side responds. "I knew it. I knew you wouldn't be able to handle this. But you have to understand, we have to do this!"
"But do we?" He squeaks, beginning to cry again.
"Yes." The other answers quietly. "It's the only way. It's the only way to have an impact on them. We have to show that we aren't weak and that we won't back down. They think they have us beat and we have to prove that they're wrong!"
"But at the expense of someone's health?" He stands and argues through the door.
"He's one of them!"
"It doesn't matter he's still human! We're all human!" After that the brief yelling match halts.
"We'll continue without you then. Since obviously you can't handle it." The other says quietly through the wood. He can hear the second party start to leave but then his boots stop in place. "I love you, but your not brave at all and sometimes your cowardice worries me."
That was the last word before he completely left. The crying man stands and walks back up to the sink and begins washing his hands again. Lathering them, running them under water, scrubbing them with his nails until they turn raw. He braces the sink and starts to sob excessively; so excessively that it's nearly hysterical. Those words hurt, for he heard them too much, from both allies and enemies alike. Even before the war he was teased. People would say how weak he was, how unworthy, how stupid and irrational. He began to wonder when being nice became being weak.
He swallows hard and looks up at the mirror. When he looks, he sees his reflection. He sees his face, but that's not him. He doesn't recognize this person he sees before him. This person is reserved, cruel and disciplined; this person is society's definition of 'brave'. But there are so many different types of bravery right? He thinks, touching his face in the mirror. I've been through so much. Why do they call me weak? I don't understand, don't they know? I'm not weak. Why else would I still be here? I may be nervous, but I'm no coward. I am brave. There are many types of bravery. The one you keep to yourself, and the one you force on others. Beating England to a mere inch of death is an act of cowardice. They think we're going to lose, they think we need to intimidate them to win this war instead of just believing in themselves. That is cowardice. Refraining from doing so and believing in yourself when no one else does, that is bravery. My name is Feliciano Vargas. I am not weak. I am not stupid. I am strong. I am reasonable. I am brave.