My Precious Ruby,
If you are reading this, I'm dead.
I killed your father with a sawed-off shotgun.
Right on the head. His brain splattered on our kitchen's colorless white wall. He was too lazy painting it, so I finished his job for him.
Then I would leave this letter on your hands while you're sleeping in your bed. But I know you're awake, obviously. The sound of my crimes cannot be unheard. Every time I kissed your warm cheeks, you move slightly. Nice try pretending.
The chain has been broken. He is dead and you are free.
But I am not worthy to be your mother.
I never thought he'd been touching you behind my back while I was away, driving the white-skins out of Hindiria with my comrades, with the help of the Sirzians, and destroying the oppressive caste system that had been plaguing our country for three thousand years.
I thought you were safe with this moron, my so-called husband, whom I thought had grown out of his childish stupidity and become as strong as I am. Makes me realize my mistake accepting a cheap-ass wedding ring from that sick fuck. I knew this fool since he moved with his wealthy parents and sisters to my neighborhood before the war. My parents were right about him. I should never have married a spoiled weakling. My disciplines upon him was never enough. I was too soft back then, blinded by my heart's love and pity. I was very optimistic that he would transformed into a man with my guidance.
I was wrong. The fool preferred staying as a little boy the moment he treated you as his plaything. A shame, because he made me feel human amidst the suffering that we endured together during the war. I've sacrificed myself many times for his safety. He would have died hungry and alone, after his rich family kicked him out to the streets, where the battlefield was where I saved him, which was my regret.
You would've never been born in the first place in this unmerciful world. I've experienced its cruelty, the constant pain. The war. The death of my family and friends. The rapes that I would never get justice for. The vengeance and hate I would never let go. The lives lost by my hands, soldiers and citizens alike. The men, women, and children my comrades and I slaughtered like factory pigs, just because they were on the wrong side.
I glee on the agonizing deaths of screaming white-skins and traitors as I prolong their life of torture. Beating, stabbing, and maiming them. I thought I had done the right thing. Our enemies against our nation cannot escape bad karma. Now, what comes around goes around and it takes a hold what I cherished the most.
My precious Ruby.
You don't deserve to experience what I been through nor my unjust actions upon the innocents. If you didn't exist, he would never have abused you. But he did. He did. Because you exist. Because of me.
I knew all along that my life only belong to the killing fields. I would've stayed as a fighter for my country's freedom. I would've died for it. I would've died as a hero and a murderer. Instead I lived, and tried to escape from the war, out of selfish desire to move on and start a family. Maybe because I wanted to fulfill the last wish of my parents before they were taken away from me:
"Live a good life, with a good husband, and raise good children."
Their last words are not exactly accurate. I have to use my imagination. I can't remember the actual last words of my mother and father right before our so-called good neighbors labeled them rebels for the police slavers to capture.
But it doesn't matter.
They're dead. I would've defied their wish. But then I married my husband, and you came to my world, my precious Ruby. You gave me life.
And that was the reason why I had to leave you. My country cried out to me, begging for my help in ridding the white-skins from our soils. I would not allow those monsters touching you like they did to me and countless other Hindirian women. Your life is my life. If you suffer, I suffer. If you're dead, I'm dead. But instead, I left you with a "father" as worse as any monsters I fought and bled against. I could have known. I cursed all the gods and goddesses for not telling me not to trust him.
I cannot fathom that you were born just to suffer by his hands while I'm away, fighting for my country and protecting your innocence. I failed you more than I failed myself.
You deserve a better life than I have.
After I leave you this letter, I will get out of the house.
I will drive my speeder bike across the vast fields of crimson poppies until I find the train tracks.
Once my bike's on the tracks, I will wait for the train of the old generations appearing far on the horizon, with my bike facing it. The repulsorlift engine is faster than the speed of the train. Enough for a quick, painful exit from this world.
This will avenge you, my daughter. A motivation that should compel you to never be like me. Ever.
Hindiria should be recovering quickly from the war, thanks to Sirzia's support. Although our country is not completely independent, now a territory of the Sirzian Empire, at least it's better than under the rule of the white-skins. There's more equality, tolerance, security and opportunities than what the old days offered. No famine and crimes threatening our everyday peace. No discrimination on gender, religion, sexuality, and race. A reborn world for new generations like you.
Not for me.
I've contacted foster care to retrieve you. Wait for their arrival. Don't leave your room. I don't want you to see your father's corpse. Along with the letter, I will leave four canned sardines and water bottle to sustain your hunger and thirst.
Otherwise you will be well-fed and educated by the hands of better parents. You will grow up to the good life I never had.
So be strong, no matter what. Don't let any bullshit get to you. Do this not for me, but for yourself. Live better than your mother. Please.
From the woman who never deserved to be called 'Mother',
Sanjana Nonis
P.S.
I love you.
Goodbye.
...
She put the letter down. SHV-72020 gently folded the old, crumpled paper back into its small form as best as she could. It's what's left of her mother, a relic of a forgotten past before the fall of her childhood. The Storm Hunter carefully slipped the letter inside the small, black zipper bag then placed it in a free space of her pouch, separated from her field kit.
The girl cannot remember what her mother looked like, whether beautiful or ugly, nor any good times the two had together before the bond was torn apart by their country's war against the white-skin imperialists. The agonizing years of training within the Storm Hunter Corps that adopted her when she was just a child repressed most of the girl's pleasant memories with a living mother whom she will never know. The words in the letter are the only way for the girl to get to know her mother, and the soft crumbled paper containing them is the only skin left by the parent for the child to feel and cherish.
But the words in the letter are not just the voice of the woman who brought girl to this world. Every single alphabet imprinted on the paper is every part of her mother. The letter is the mother's corpse that must be preserved, watched over and attended as much as possible. Even though the letter was pictured several times with her Uphone just in case it was lost or destroyed, the Storm Hunter makes sure that this relic must never disappear from her life under no circumstances. SHV-72020 touched the black zipper bag harboring the paper deep inside her pouch. Then she sealed it shut. The Storm Hunter will protect the letter to her last breath.
...
Article
The Storm Hunter Corps specialize in sniping, assassination, scouting, survival, reconnaissance, infiltration, sabotage, police investigation, extreme interrogation, and various creative ways of rape, torture and execution. Most members are victims from child abuses, human trafficking, and other horrific crimes committed by the worst criminals throughout the galaxy. 85% girls, 15% boys. These once-innocent children are indoctrinated to serve the Democratic Empire of Sirzia, and are brutally trained to deal with the complexity of military and detective roles, such as the benefits of teamwork, working alone, cooperating with regular and special infantry, adapting and surviving any environments, and controlling their impulses when investigating suspects. All at the price of living a normal happy life, as they were pushed to the horizon of workaholism and sociopathy. However, their lack of empathy are carefully modified to harm only the intended targets ordered by their superiors, not anyone else. Despite this, it is not uncommon for Storm Hunters to do whatever they want, such as hurting anyone in their way when nobody is watching. So they must be under constant supervision at all cost during their assignment or off-duty, as the skills of the Storm Hunters are Sirzia's valuable resources in keeping the peace against criminals, terrorists, rebels, political opponents, and foreign enemies.
Veteran Storm Hunters would progress to the HellStorm Hunters Corps, a higher elite organization within an elite organization. To those with empathy, this is more like a degeneration to more depravity as these veterans became less human and more cold-blooded menacing.
The Storm Hunters usually work side by side with their rivals the Storm Marines when a dangerous situation brings them together in order to fulfill their objectives. While the Storm Marines, and HellStorm Marines, are hardcore, ruthless, and believe they are above all branches of the Sirzian Military, their bravado are usually humbled by the Storm Hunter Corps. A Storm Marine who commit heinous crimes for the greater good would become ghastly sicken by the gruesome aftermath left behind by the Storm Hunter.