AJ: It's the first time you read a story within a story? I can say that I haven't read one either and this is definitely my first time writing it. I hope liked it though!
ikanisfish:Maybe he will, maybe he won't :)
An Eldian's Journal
The Soul of War
Chapter 44: Petrichor
'The Narrator' and I played tug of war with the story drafts. Why did he want them so badly? I couldn't quite figure it out then. It was likely since storytelling provides you the omnipotent feeling that you're in control of the narrative. You are the boss. Also, since the story got a decent reception from our fellow bunkmates, he must have wanted that sweet ego boost and would go as far as stealing someone else's ideas for it.
Of course, before this dispute could find a resolution, Kaslow re-entered the barracks with his beady eyes plunging towards me, yet his stomach felt even closer. He yelled, "Steiner!" and pointed a finger at the floor as if wanting me to stand exactly where he aimed.
I yanked the papers out of the narrator's hands and rushed over to the plump man. He said, "Steiner, I have an order just for you."
I assumed he would bring up the order he gave me weeks about reporting everything the wall-keeper said to me, so I interrupted. "I talked to the general recently."
"Huh?" his head leaned forward as if examining for two things: one, what I said apparently made no sense to him. And two, I interrupted him.
"You told me to tell you suspicious things, he says."
"Oh yea," he pulled back. "I forgot about that. We can deal with that buffoon later. I'm referring to something else." He opened the door for me. "Congratulations, Steiner, you're officially stupid. Go to the psychologist's office."
I asked, puzzled, "psychologist?"
"Yes. That's what I just said. Why are you repeating it? You really are stupid." Kaslow appeared really peeved that day, likely because many cadets, including me, were poor with rifles. His insults slapped harder than a parent's belt landing on a kid's bum. "Anyway, don't get fooled by the fool sitting at the desk. He may look like a retired receptionist, but he isn't. He's a pretentious prick that gets to do mind magic for a paycheck. You two would get along quite well."
I was taken aback by Kaslow's berating of a fellow military man, but then I remembered who I was talking to and just went my merry way out the door.
Kaslow yelled again after I walked a few feet out, "Hey! Do you even know where the office is?"
"No." I realized my stupidity. I was too hot-headed from the earlier moments of that day.
He told me the directions by wagging his finger in the air as if drawing a map. If a pencil was attached to his finger at that moment, he would be drawing a yarn ball. Anyway, I understood what he was saying and kept walking while a thought knitted in my mind with black wool.
'Why didn't I just do this earlier when the wall-keeper suggested it?' That likely would have saved time. Time efficiency is not a theme of this journal, I'm afraid.
Arriving at the psychologist's office, I found a crooked sign hanging on to the door for dear life. Maybe some jealous general thought vandalizing would make them feel better about their salaries.
I knocked three times, and I heard a thud-like one in return. A mug must have fallen over. A brittle voice called. "Come in!"
I opened the door to find a thin man with spectacles on. The glasses had such a high power it made his eyes look proportionately large for his small goblin face. I looked at the floor and saw some bubbling liquid from a fractured ceramic mug.
The doctor grinned faintly, bringing a web of wrinkles to life. "Sorry about that. I was drinking soda, but it burned my nose so much that I dropped it. They say it makes people excited, which I need a lot in this job. But I'm worried if there's actual cocaine in it. That's hopefully a rumor..." He reached for something underneath his desk. "You want some soda?"
"I respectfully decline, sir." I needed to be polite to get answers, so I cranked my professionalism up to the max.
"Right, we have something more important to do anyway." His network of wrinkles calmed down, and his professionalism activated. "Sergeant Kaslow set up this appointment for you, so let's make the most of it before he starts yelling at me." He led me to a chair at the front of the desk. I sat down, half-expecting a more special seating arrangement for a doctor's office. Then again, the military probably spends its resources in indeterminable ways, away from comfortable chairs.
The doctor reached underneath his desk again and brought out a chessboard. It felt like he could summon anything from under there if he set his mind to it. After all, he was a psychologist; isn't that one of his superpowers?
At a comfortable distance close to me, the doctor set the chessboard on the table and pulled out the chess pieces—the army of wooden men. They scrambled over the desk, and the black/white mixed together. They already appeared to be quarreling, and the game hadn't even begun yet.
With the addition of each new item, I wondered if he would make me complete an IQ test to make sure I wasn't retarded. After pulling out the ticking timer, I failed to find an answer for my mental question, "Heinrich, let's play some chess. I assume you know how to play since you live in the internment zone?"
"Yes." Eldian's lacked sufficient entertainment outside of music and each other's idiocy. So instead, we enjoyed the simulated discourse of wooden soldiers on the miniature version of a restaurant floor.
The doctor pulled out the black pieces from the pile, gave them to me, and took the white. I guess it was the evil color for the devil and the pure one for the savior.
Before starting, I wondered if taking that possibly-cocaine-spiked soda would help me see chess pieces on the ceiling, thereby enhancing visualization of strategies.
"I'll go first." The psychologist moved a pawn two steps forward. I mimicked the psychologist's move with my own pawn, the weakest rank of all pieces on the whole board. I could feel his eyes softly staring onto my scalp while I observed the restaurant-floor design of the board. I looked at the array of pots and pans under my control.
The pawn and I had a thing in common, you know? We were both weak. I was a pawn in the grand chessboard of the battlefield.
Our pawns met up in the center of the board, locking eyes on one another. They couldn't pounce on each other, though, for they had a tile between them, and the rules forbade interaction at their placement. Some other pieces would have to carry out the intent.
The psychologist picked up one of his Knights, one of the horse-shaped pieces, and the piece trotted to a tile falling in line with an L placement. I moved my Queen, the King's protector, hasty to make quick work of the soldiers already out.
The old 'receptionist' set down his drink, stared at his board, avoiding eye contact with me, and gripped the Knight that he had already released. I noticed the jagged fingernails briefly, and he moved the piece. It knocked out one of my unsuspecting pawns. He picked up the massacred soldier and threw its corpse to the side of the board, letting it rot.
I gulped and prepared a strategy to prevent making a fool of myself.
More soldiers came out of their trenches as the minutes passed and the intervals in my decision-making grew. The simulated war expanded to a larger scale with each piece.
The timer kept ticking as a mild storm outside did some tocking. My already meager confidence felt some slipping as the psychologist kept at his sipping.
The losses began at one for me and zero for him, and this ratio fortunately changed. Unfortunately, it just wasn't in my favor. His zero became a one at the cost of three for me. It then became three at the expense of eight for me.
The ever-increasing loss made me feel rank with embarrassment, but then again, I realized this miniature battle was for more than winning. The psychologist must have been analyzing me.
As a desperate, last-ditch effort, I pulled my King into the fight. He was a limited functionality piece, only able to move one time in all directions, compared to the Queen, who can move as far as she wants in any direction. It was lackluster.
Lackluster is a great word to describe my general performance in that game, especially when the psychologist's first Knight approached my King. The Knight's hooves scraped the ground as if preparing to charge towards the King. The psychologist uttered without a smile, "Checkmate."
The pure Knight sliced the head of my evil King, like the magnificent and beautiful Helos knocking down the repugnant devil.
The psychologist put out his hand for a handshake, and despite light sweat glistening on my hand, I accepted it. I let my loss settle in, which thankfully didn't sting for too long since, it goes without saying, I had a more significant loss that day that couldn't be trumped.
The psychologist set the chess materials underneath the desk. I partly expected him to bring out a puzzle, but he brought out only his hands. They landed on top of the desk, with faint crookedness in the fingers displayed in their entirety.
The psychologist spoke, "I can make a thousand assumptions from your character based on that one game."
I moved my head backward slightly in astonishment. I tried my best to keep it reserved.
The psychologist continued. "You don't think about what the correct move to make is. That time is wasted on hesitation instead. You tried to impress me by moving the Queen, which would be a move quite out of character for you, which proves your instability at the moment…." He continued with his assumptions, which happened to be as precise as an arrow to a skull.
The man continued, "Now, since I put that out there, what else can I add to get a better picture of you?" He readjusted his glasses and picked up a clipboard with a fresh piece of paper. He had entirely played out the stereotype of a doctor with that simple move.
"Where do I start?" I was dumbfounded by how many things I could mention.
"After the shooting." The psychologist knew about it. Of course, he did.
"Well…"
The man interrupted, "Actually, there's one more thing I have to tell you. I could be a typical Marleyan and say your pain is what you deserve after your people ravaged my people, but…." He shrugged. "I'm too old to carry grudges. They're for your superior officers that fight each other for medals. But don't tell anyone I said that." When he said that, I noticed a funnel shape in the back of the room, the kind outsiders can use to eavesdrop…
I began pulling through the cobwebs of events that transpired months before. Events with Eldians of differing beliefs forced by the lack of choices to stay together in a basement. Times I had to witness Eldians getting beaten in front of me. Events where I saw people in Section E lying on the pavement with their limbs disjointed, dead from suicide. I also mentioned how I felt during the rifle exam itself.
The pen finished its scribbling, and the psychologist's slightly enlarged eyes landed on me. "What you see life as may not be what it is."
The wordplay confused me. I couldn't tell if it was intentional, but I could tell why Kaslow thought this man was pretentious. It was as if he over-acted the doctor role.
"You look puzzled," he retorted.
I gave a brief nod.
"The objects you see are determined by how you see, Heinrich."
"Sir, I'm not entirely sure what that means," I said, trying to sound as respectable as possible.
"Okay, then." He pushed up his glasses again. "I'll get you to say it yourself. Answer this for me. What is the first thing you think about when you pick up a rifle?
"Well," I tried playing it out in my head. "I am always reminded of my accident. That's what always comes to my mind."
"My point exactly," His cheeks raised, and his wrinkles followed along. "You see in the past. You always look back at your misfortunes or your future misfortunes." He paused as if letting the information soak into the air. He finally said. "You are not alone, however. A human mind only focuses on the present for three seconds. The rest goes to the past or in anticipation of misfortune in the future."
I sat quiet, simply stunned by yet another man telling me his philosophies. I couldn't help but think back to the thoughts of the ambiguous Mr. Kruger, the street-dweller. His ideas that people view the world in different shades that are all deviated from the truth came back through a man of oppressor blood.
The doctor continued. "Let me give you a set of hypotheticals." I readjusted myself in the chair and listened to him continue. "If you have a boy who used a knife to kill an evil man, to save some random girl maybe, what would his attitude be towards using that knife again in the future?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but the psychologist raised a finger. "If you have a boy who got tricked into using a gun and could have killed a man that he had no intention of killing, what would his attitude be towards using that gun again in the future?" He put his hand out as if motioning me to answer.
I took a moment to think it over and said, "The first boy would be okay with using the knife again because he knew he used it to save somebody. The second boy…." My words drooped. "He wouldn't like using that gun."
"You are that second boy, Heinrich. No one should blame you for how you feel." He took the glasses off, and the eyes revealed their proper size, actually fitting his face. I observed the earnestness in his face and relished that a Marleyan displayed a smile to me crowded with compassion for the first time. His yellow, jagged teeth were like filthy rocks a child finds on the ground, yet felt homely.
The doctor sat back in his chair and delivered the next set of hypotheticals. "The first boy may pick up that knife again in the future. But he may kill somebody that did not need to be killed. The second boy may not use a gun again, but he may end up letting a person pass that did need to be killed." He paused once more. "What do you think I'm getting at?"
"It seems like something goes wrong anyway," I responded.
He put his glasses back on, and his frail cheeks puffed out to brace them. "That's right. That is uncertainty. That is what you keep clawing at when you go about your daily tasks and important tasks like exams." He looked back at his clipboard as if looking at a script.
"Then, what am I supposed to do?" My words trudged through quietly.
He lifted his eyes again. "You need something to ground you to the present."
Instead of feeling reasonable, I had a lump of animosity in my throat that grew with each word. "But, sir, how can you say everything is uncertain? I can be certain that so many things are going wrong." I stood up and placed my hands on the desk. "It's all thanks to your- (people)" I shut down my sentence before 'people,' noticing the eavesdropping tool in the back, and sat back down.
The doctor didn't acknowledge my outburst and instead said respectfully. "Is it? You're still alive, aren't you? If there's one thing you get out of this appointment, Heinrich, let it be this." He paused, "You're Eldian. You're born to have everything taken from you. Despite these circumstances, you're left with one freedom. The freedom to choose your own way."
"How am I supposed to choose my own way? I'm stuck having to do-"
"When you can't change the situations you're in, you must change yourself." He slammed his finger onto the table, shutting me up. "If everything is hell for you already, what value is there to add more hell onto yourself?"
The doctor got up carefully from his chair to avoid knocking more soda and went back to the phonograph funnel in the back. It had a recording cylinder attached, meaning the whole session was recorded. He said, "Patient Steiner, Heinrich," and listed my Eldian ID. He then removed the recording cylinder; minute grooves laced the entire wax.
"We're off the record now. Time and time again, no matter if I talk to an Eldian, Marleyan, or even the conscripts. Every one of them adds trouble to themselves. Fellow Marleyans hold their superiority complexes so tightly that they lose self-value and become depressed when it's threatened. Then some Eldians hold their victimhood so tightly that they revel in it, almost fetishizing it, letting their oppression define themselves…."
The doctor sat back down in his chair and sighed. He squeezed the area between his eyebrows and looked back at the clipboard. "Anyway, let's get back to you. You need to find something that grounds you in the present. Something that doesn't allow you to merge the past and present at once."
I looked past his rant and tried to think of something, but I was unsure what he meant. "I'm not sure."
"An object that reminds you of someone back home is likely to bring up the past, which we would want to avoid."
"What else is there to use then?"
"I know." He put his hands out as if motioning the entire room. "Just use your surroundings. When you're on the firing range, pay attention to your environment, like the grass."
That answer seemed too lame and straightforward, but I forced my face to stay neutral to make sure he didn't know I thought that way.
The psychologist continued. "It sounds too simple to be true, but it's often the simple stuff we never do. There isn't a magical key or medicine that solves this." He put the cap on his pen and set it back down. It seemed like our appointment had come to an end. He stood up and put out a hand for a handshake.
I shook hands with a Marleyan. Should I be honored? Or confused?
I walked to the door, and when I set my hand on the doorknob, the old 'receptionist' made one last remark. I faced him. "These kinds of problems require a change of mindset, and it can take a while to get it right. Other than that, I hope you become a great combat medic, saving lives instead of taking them."
I gave him a nod and opened the door. The evening light was intruded with the clouds' tears: the rain. I am sure it made for a dramatic backdrop as my training uniform's pale green drowned into a dark verdant, and I reminisced on the doctor's thoughts. Who knew paying attention to your surroundings could solve my troubles?
XXX
Cadet stares greeted me rudely when I returned to the barracks. Unlike the doctor, these stares didn't want handshakes but instead wanted to be obnoxious as possible, a task they passed with flying colors.
The narrator's stare was the first to greet me. He must have wanted to steal back the papers he originally stole. He tried taunting me with his baritone voice at first, "Give me back my drafts." I brushed past him and walked over to the candle in the back of the room.
I pulled out the drafts, and the contained flame heightened briefly as if wanting some new fuel. The ink would make for a great synthetic flavor.
I put the draft over the flame, and the cadets looked at the narrator, hungry to know how this drama would unfold.
"You wouldn't dare," the narrator said. He pointed his finger at me desperately. What a great actor. He almost would have made me believe those papers were his if they weren't mine.
"I would dare." I held the corners of the paper into the hungry flame.
The fire nibbled at the drafts for a few seconds, but the flames pulled back due to the paper being damp. We were left with a few black marks where the fire consumption began and ended.
The narrator acted relieved and quickly pointed out my supposed stupidity. Even the audience members enjoyed watching this great play. The narrator promptly shot back, "You should have waited until the papers dried out to do that."
I knew this would happen beforehand, but I just wanted to tease him a little bit. I grabbed the papers with my two index fingers and ripped a centimeter into the page. His face went awry with every single centimeter that I tore into, and the other cadets continued to make surprised sounds as if watching a hurtful plot point in a story.
I broke the story down into its bare bones and kept ruining it further. I ultimately ripped the paper into infinitesimal pieces. The words laid shattered on the barracks floor.
"If I can't have it. You can't either," I said.
The narrator stayed quiet in disbelief until he began yelling in obscenities. I remained calm despite that. "How's the story going to continue? If you're the writer, you should know."
He ceased his yelling and simmered down. "I didn't think that far ahead."
"Oh," I said mockingly. "Every storyteller thinks farther ahead than they should unless it isn't their own story they're telling." I learned that in my few weeks of practice storytelling in the paper-based format. I thought beyond what I had written.
The narrator showed me the middle finger with a complimentary "screw you" and walked back to his bunk. I accepted my tiny win but looked at the draft on the floor with silence. Thankfully, it was all printed out in the newspapers, or at least I assumed it was, so I didn't regret my dramatics.
I returned to my friends, and they commented on my performance with the narrator. Kurt intruded with his usual killjoy sensibility. "You know, Heinrich, with all the heat you're in at the moment, It was probably wasn't the best idea to piss that guy off."
Viktor changed the subject. "Screw that guy. What did that psychologist say about you?" Kurt looked annoyed by Viktor's dismissal of his comments, but he faced me. Both pals looked eager as if I was a case study unraveling before their eyes.
I told them about the chess game, to which they replied "What?" in unison. Fair enough. I then told them about the psychologist's thoughts on staying in tune with the present rather than straying to the past and future. They acted dumbfounded by those as if they had never heard a lick of psychology before. Fair enough, once again. Psychology is not an essential feature of working-class families in the internment zone.
I finally said, "I think I have to somehow stop thinking about that day with Reiner when picking up a gun. I have to stop attaching all those bad things to what's going on now." I looked directly at them. "But his solution seemed too basic."
"What is it?" Kurt asked.
"It's like I said earlier. The doctor wanted me to focus on objects in the present when doing tasks so I don't think about all the things that have gone wrong or will go wrong."
"That's it?" Viktor asked dramatically while shifting his head to his side.
Kurt responded to him. "I mean, you can't have medicine for everything, Viktor. If there was medicine for everything, we would be dead consuming it all."
He replied mockingly. "Shut up, Kurt. You just say that because you can't afford medicine for whatever's going on with your face."
I ignored the comments and said, "I guess I have to practice for the next few days until the test is conducted again."
The boys started talking about how they needed to practice too, but I assured them that if they got 7/10 shots correctly, they had the skills but were too nervous. They wouldn't have anything to worry about.
I got onto my bed and sat with my legs crossed. I shut my eyes.
Full transparency, that was the most awkward I have ever felt. Closing my eyes and sitting weird while other people were awake meant they could do anything, and I wouldn't be able to see it. Doing this at night while writing the story was different since everyone would be asleep, but I couldn't trust my fellow cadets. Not even Viktor and Kurt.
I tried to follow the psychologist's advice and focus on the present. By closing out my vision, I could focus on just my hearing. This helped me form a mental map of my surroundings. I could hear in a room corner the chitter of squirrel-like cadets arguing over the acorns that were probably stolen cigarettes. There seemed to be people laughing in the left corner of the room, likely due to a card game that someone horribly lost. Then, I heard the door open, probably a cadet heading out to the bathroom.
Intruding thoughts came knocking on my door while I carried out this activity. My mind began to expound on these sounds with assumptions and, unsurprisingly, tie ins with my past.
The squirrel chittering over the cigarettes reminded me of Lina, the cigarette wielder, and how I was an asshole for never saying bye to her. That pulled down my mood. I wondered if the cigarette materials she had given me were stolen or not; thus, this activity spiraled into a mild disaster.
Of course, a random cadet had to throw his useless two cents in, for he must have noticed my activity. "Hey Heinrich, it's not even dinner time yet, and you're already sleeping?"
A spiritual cadet said stupidly, "Maybe he's doing a ritual to kill us all."
One fool even sprinkled what felt like paper on my head, which must have been the draft scraps. I stayed adamant about keeping my eyes closed.
Milo's voice came up to my ear, and he blasted, "Or maybe's he trying to ignore us because we hurt his feelings. Sorry, Heinrich. Was I not loud enough?! Should I say it louder?!"
I hopped off my bed and pushed through my supposed 'brothers' in arms.' I rushed over to the door and left the barracks.
The rain reduced to a drizzle, and I found a slight edge on the barracks' porch that carried soaked dirt. I pushed it off and sat down on the damp wood. Thankfully, no cadets followed me.
I resume my activity. I closed my eyes and caught the drizzling ticking the ground delicately like a parent tapping a child's cheek to wake it up. It felt soft, and it increased and decreased as the minutes followed. The sounds mixed with the sounds of muffled cadets as well. The walls muted their sounds which made my task more manageable.
I sniffed the air, and for once, it had a scent during rain time, or maybe I just noticed it for the first time. I could actually smell the dampness. The damp soil manifested a charisma, a smile in the form of a pleasant musk from quenching its thirst after being parched. I believe the appropriate term for this is petrichor, the smell of rain. What a lovely word, if I don't say so myself…
This petrichor danced gleefully with the faint chittering of squirrel-like Eldians and tapping of drizzles. These great friends can tease one's senses to their depths like they did for me.
Just for once, I was mindful of what happened around me. I absorbed what was happening objectively as I could without inserting my thoughts into the grand equation of experiencing life.
I wish I could say this was an easy feat, however. That would be lying plain and simple. It is incredibly problematic to keep the human mind silent when you want it to. Like an aggravating child that won't shut up about its self-centered needs, the brain shouts and calls for something. It produces bee-like thoughts that buzz incessantly, seeking revenge for the smallest trifles that have happened years ago or have yet to happen.
I guess that's why entertainment is so attractive to people. It quiets their brains temporarily, thereby rejuvenating them and putting them in a better mental state. Alcohol, marijuana, and its cousins probably help out as well…
After a few minutes of mindfulness, I opened my eyes, and my sight felt introduced to a new world. It felt fresh. I don't know how to explain it to you, but it felt like I got introduced to a world running parallel to the one I experienced on a daily…
XXX
I practiced that sensory exercise during the days that followed. I also tried this activity with my eyes open. As a result, I would feel like a ton was lifted off my head for a few minutes and sink to normalcy later.
When the re-assessment day finally arrived, I stood in a crowd of other test-flunkers with the sun barely in the middle of the sky. Fewer sergeants led the assessment this time around, which lowered the negative anticipation. More people usually adds stress for people.
Viktor and Kurt went before me and managed to pass. That added to a more objective mood.
When I walked to pick a rifle, I tactfully touched the weapon. I reminded myself it was just wood and metal expertly shaped together. I took a deep breath and tried to detach the memories that came along with it and the concerns.
'It's just a rifle exam, Heinrich. Whatever score you get, they're just going to shove you off for the next group of people.'
I laid down on the music stage-like platform, and the other cadets followed suit. My instrument of killing was unloaded.
"Okay, cadets, I'm sure you all know the assessment by now, but just to reiterate, you have ten bullets. Five are to be used while lying down and the others while standing. Four out of five shots must make it inside the yellow and red bounds of your individual targets. Likewise while standing up."
I took a deep breath once more and tried to pay attention to the surroundings. I noticed the dead grass that lay flocking in the occasional gusts of wind. My mind was even stable enough to catch the slow crawl of the clouds. The unevenness in the height of our individual targets grew apparent.
A sergeant blew a whistle. Everyone cadet tested rushed to begin.
I logically followed the steps. I began picking up the ammunition, unlike last time when I totally forgot about it and wasted a few seconds.
This time, a few cadets rushed, and they tried slamming the ammo in the rifle haphazardly, thus causing jams. Many triggers were locked, and many faces grew frantic. It goes without saying, but jams can easily waste precious time.
I inserted my ammo with urgency but tactfully, making sure everything was in alignment before inserting. I pulled the bolt to load and looked down the rifle's length. I lined up the little notch to the red circle on the target and strummed the trigger. My instrument of death shot a note. Instead of piercing a heart with melody, it hit the outside ring of the target.
I made a mistake with my first shot, just like last time.
Yet, instead of flaring up mentally, I recognized that twelve seconds is ample time to fire a gun. Some other cadets spent more time swearing than actually shooting.
I looked back at the target, and no Reiner was found.
I pulled the bolt to reload and spent extra seconds lining my shot to the best of my ability. When comfortable, I fired, and some short recoil shot into my arm. The bullet landed in the yellow.
It made it in. One for two. That's a step in the right direction.
I followed up the remaining three shots just like I did the second. I spent every second available to control my nerves and adjust the rifle to the target. Most importantly, I wiped the sweat off the handheld regions so the mistake last time with the grip wouldn't happen again.
Two for three shots became three for four and ultimately four for five. I fired the fifth bullet the second before a sergeant blew a whistle for us to stand up.
The other cadets and I briskly stood up to complete the same goal but with even less stability. The platform provided a rest to hold the gun, but it was a different story while standing. One extra skill needed to be tested.
I ejected the depleted magazine and bent down to pick the new one. Other cadets scrambled to pick up their new ones; their fingers pattered about the platform and shells of previously used bullets.
I pulled the bolt and followed the same monotonous routine, but an old friend came by to spice up the second round. The lovely visual of Reiner strolled over to my target and stood gloomy as usual.
I did what the psychologist told me. I stayed in the present. I kept my mind on the faint breeze and the sensation of the gun in my palm since those were real. That event ended. It had its time and place but no longer.
I pulled the trigger, and my first shot made it in. Five for six.
Two more shots followed. Both made it in the red. Seven for Eight.
Despite remembering to wipe the sweat off, the gun went loose in my hands for the eighth shot. The recoil was more forceful than usual, and the weapon slipped in my hands for a brief second. The bullet didn't even land on target.
Seven for nine.
I had to make the next shot in, or the goal of becoming a combat medic with my friends would be delayed by who knows how long…
I took a deep breath again. The natural drug of taking in air and letting it out proved more helpful than I could have ever imagined. I adjusted my toes and feet to achieve the best posture possible.
I wiped my hands furiously and adjusted the gun. I looked down the length of the rifle, and Reiner's vision stayed strong. The antagonist my own mind created proved resilient.
I tickled the trigger with my finger as if still hesitant, but I whispered, "Screw it." I pulled the trigger, and upon hearing the final clap of the bullet, my legs caved.
***A FINAL SCORE***
Eight for Ten
I finally did it.
I succeeded.
I lied down on the platform and looked into the sky. The clouds were still crawling, and occasional crows dropped their unsanitary bullets. Everything was the same as it was before.
A whistle blew, and I lifted my back up. "That's it?" I asked, almost feeling underwhelmed. The vision of Reiner dissipated. His head started to flake.
The cadet next to me shoved his bullets into the grass to leave room for the next person. He responded to my question with a question. "Not that bad, right? I don't know why I got so worked up." He grunted while picking some other things up. "I made such a big deal about it the first time."
The dreamy state of being in the clouds, flying with shit-dropping birds, came crashing down when a sergeant looked down at me.
"I finally did it," I said to him.
"Good for you," he tried his best to act like he cared. "Now get off. Other people are waiting."
I got up and wiped my pants, and sighed. Sure, passing the test was a weight off my shoulders, but nothing actually changed. The world was still spinning. No girls started chasing after me wanting to get married. I didn't become six inches taller. I was still 15 years old, single, and most importantly, oppressed.
At least my friends were there to give some congrats. That ripped a smile out of me.
Viktor must have read my mind, though, since he asked, "What's wrong, Heinrich? We're not horrible with rifles anymore! Why are you still depressed?"
"I don't know…It just felt underwhelming."
Kurt stepped in with a twitch. "It feels so stressful chasing the goal, but when you actually achieve it, I guess it doesn't feel as special as when you were chasing it." He shrugged. "It feels like meh. It doesn't feel like much."
"Not you too, Kurt." Viktor looked at us desperately. "You guys are such downers."
I wish I could tell you I faced a darker version of myself or battled a unique titan to learn the most precise rifle techniques, but I can't. This is real life, and we don't have amazing spectacles to solve our issues in real life. More minor issues like anger management, self-control, etc., ironically hold much more significant weight…
After every group of ten had their turns, the sergeants gathered us together and made a speech. They didn't even bother to change it from last time. I guess they didn't have a budget for scriptwriters.
The only sentence I cared about was, "You all passed basic training now. In a few days, there will be the graduation ceremony where you will be congratulated along with your fellow cadets who passed the exams earlier."
XXX
My mood stayed relatively neutral through the remainder of the day. The boys and I had already dropped our success and spent hours contemplating what the one-month medical training would be like. We carried this discussion into the dining room.
That day, the food at dinner lacked the peasantry from the previous months and instead exuded an unexpected pleasantry. Meatloaf no longer looked to be made out of mystery meat but natural beef. Chicken pot pie looked like it had actual chickens and not crow meat. It looked to actually be made of natural ingredients.
I sat down with Kurt and Viktor, as usual. The warrior candidates sat at the tables in front of us. When I ate some of the seasoned potatoes, the flavor sent a brief shock in my jaw since my taste buds had forgotten what legitimate food tasted like. My eyebrows raised in surprise, and so did Kurt and Viktor.
We felt humbled by the nourishment. We actually appreciated the military chef putting in an indirect effort to pat our backs. I know I'm exaggerating, but you probably understand the significance of quality food as a human. It adds weight to the stomach that grounds your mind and renews your grim soul.
A quiet savoring followed until the Grice brothers flocked over with their shiny hair and equally shiny smiles. They greeted us, and Kurt and Viktor wiped their mouths in a poor effort to seem civilized. Colt sat opposite of me, and while applying pepper to his potatoes, he asked, "Heinrich, what happened to your story? Did any of the cadets in your barracks read it?"
Viktor almost spat out his water and asked. "You guys knew about the story?"
"Yes." Colt looked down at Falco almost proudly. "My brother suggested it." Falco lowered his gaze down to his food and huddled closer to his brother as if embarrassed.
Kurt and Viktor looked at each other and then at me, likely confused how a young kid could suggest such a brutal story or why I didn't tell them anything about it sooner.
Colt said, "I haven't read the whole thing yet. I assume there's not too much blood in it since my brother came up with it originally, right?" He chewed his potatoes for a few seconds and paused when we didn't react. "Right?"
Me, Kurt, and Viktor almost simultaneously gagged on our food, as if that was the funniest thing we could have ever heard. Words struggled to leave my mouth coherently, so I shook my head side to side.
Kurt returned to Colt's previous question. "It seemed like most people liked the story." He made eye contact with me asking permission for the more sensitive details.
Viktor disregarded permission and added on to Kurt's thoughts. "Oh, yesterday was wonderful. Heinrich became so dramatic." He lifted his hands and tried acting out. "This is the only damn thing I did correctly. Don't you dare take this from me." Logically, Colt and Falco looked puzzled, and they kept their utensils down.
***A FACT***
Viktor was a bad storyteller.
Instead of starting at point A and going logically to B, C, and D, he instantly skipped to Z.
I clarified the situation and included the necessary details, including my breakdown. Colt replied, "Whoa, that's a pretty…." He restrained himself as if not wanting to swear. He then gave up. "Yeah, that's a pretty shitty thing to do."
Falco reiterated. "Yeah, that's a pretty shitty thing to do."
Colt looked down at the golden boy and reprimanded, "If mom was here right now, she would make you eat a bar of soap."
"She'd make you do it too."
"Why don't you go play with Gabi and the others?"
"Gabi will just mush potatoes in my hair and shove bread pieces up my nose."
Colt returned to his food. "Fair enough."
After a few minutes of silence and eating food, the boys asked the Grice brothers how they knew me. Falco discussed the time when a lady at a bakery tried chasing after me after I stole some snacks without paying, and she was yelled at for being an honorary Marleyan. Viktor stared at the armband the entire time as if secretly judging or maybe just curious from not seeing an honorary Marleyan before.
Unfortunately, Falco had still not fully learned the concept of restraint, and he mentioned his viewpoint of the Reiner accident. "I thought you were a murderer at first and that you took advantage of me. But you were taken advantage of instead."
My appetite left my body, and I suddenly stopped chewing whatever was in my mouth. Dead air followed, but Kurt did his best to pull us out of the situation. "I already heard the story, but I want to see it for myself. Can we go get a copy of the paper?"
"Sure," I said instantly. Everyone picked up their dishes and utensils as if also wanting to escape from the situation. We then left the dining room after putting the items in a central bin to be washed.
My usual nighttime stroll with the Grice brothers had two extra tagalongs. These extras did well to squeeze out all the information from the brothers, such as what was it like to be an Honorary Marleyan. These types of questions resulted in the brothers always saying humble things. Colt mentioned, "We are allowed to leave the zone more freely than regular Eldians. There's also a lot of people that respect us but others that don't…." He looked at his brother. "Like what Falco experienced with that bakery lady with Heinrich."
Viktor had a sleazy attitude about Honorary Marleyan. He made sure to keep them in his head around most people, unlike other vital things. He watched the brothers' stories with extreme interest. He constantly nodded as if invested in listening to every detail. On the other hand, Kurt stayed more reserved since he may have expected their stories.
Upon arrival at the mail tent, the mail soldier kept his legs perched on a table. His voice was sour, and he greeted us with a complaint as usual. "Oh look, the cadets are multiplying every week. It started with two at first, then became three, and now it's five. Why don't you bring your whole platoon in here with ya?"
"Hello, sir," I replied to the greeting. I held my eagerness at bay, like holding back an energetic dog lunging for a squirrel.
"I assume you finally want to know if your story made it to the papers." He made the sentence seem like a question when he raised his voice at the end.
"I already know, thanks to some drama back at the barracks."
"Oh no, drama." He said nonchalantly, "What's new in this training camp."
I tried looking for a stack of newspapers. "Did more people take the papers this time around?"
A toothpick wiggled shortly in the corner of his mouth, and he said bluntly, "No."
My shoulders drooped in dejection. The mail soldier must have noticed my reaction because he tried to simulate empathy. "That paper was the first time your story even got presented. The ones who usually pick up the papers will probably read it, and only then the word will spread. These things take time."
I watched Kurt struggle to pull out a copy from the wraps that held a stack of papers together. The mail soldier scoffed and then looked back at me. "You keep writing this once a week," he had a high-value coin between his thumb and forefinger. "I might just give you one of these." He flicked it at me, but instead of it landing on my hands like he must have intended, it hit Viktor on the cheek. He recoiled, of course, and knocked into Kurt.
I swiftly picked up the coin and stared at the etches lined with particles of dirt and probably dead skin. The mail soldier continued, with a slight sweetness to combat the sourness, and said, "You can spend it on girls or something when you get into town," to which everyone giggled. "I keep forgetting you're 15. You can't do stuff like that yet."
The mail soldier kept asking Viktor and Kurt about their experiences with the training camp and made it a point to tease them. He kept on with this for five more minutes until bringing up a different subject. "I see five newspaper salesmen in this room. You can get these out there more."
Viktor pointed a finger at himself as if looking for confirmation. Colt brought a rejection. "Sir, I have warrior training."
"Me too," Falco added on. "I did like doing it back in the internment zone, but I can't anymore." He looked up sheepishly and then backed down as if worried that he disappointed me.
Viktor brought a rejection as well. He tried covering his armband. "I have…warrior training as well."
"Horseshit, you don't even have a special armband. I can tell you're in the same battalion as Heinrich. Your graduation ceremony is coming soon. I know you'll have downtime before then and before the combat medic thing he was telling me about."
Falco and Colt asked in unison, "You guys passed your assessments?"
Kurt said "yes" and sneezed. The brothers clapped while the mail soldier rolled his eyes. "Anyway, the three of you guys that have time available better show up here at seven-thirty in the morning."
Viktor groaned before we all said in unison, "Yes, sir."
"Alright, now take a few spare copies and get going. I need to sleep." He said that while pulling out a questionable magazine.
All five of us left the tent, and my eyes stayed glued to the coin. I massaged it with my fingers as if making sure it wasn't a chocolate coin."
Viktor held a copy of the newspaper in his hand and asked, "Heinrich, those two friends that died in the story, did you base them off of Kurt and me?"
I put the coin into my pocket and returned to the conversation. "Yes," I said while looking at the Grice brothers. I had trouble saying it with direct eye contact.
"Oh, so you think I'm going to die in real life?"
It's funny how he actually did end up dying.
But I didn't know that then so I got defensive. "How can you make that conclusion? In all fairness, both of the characters based on you guys were killed early on, so there's no preference."
Kurt grew prickly with jealousy. "Well, the character based on me died pathetically, whereas the one on Viktor died more tragically. There seems to be quite a bit of preference there."
Falco giggled, but he tried his best to act composed when I looked at him.
"I have no comment on that," I said, trying to end this conversation.
"Oh, but I do." Kurt retaliated. We kept at this bickering for the next few minutes until Falco tugged at my arm and asked a question. "Heinrich," He opened his mouth but shut it quickly as if he didn't know what to say. "Nevermind. I'll ask you some other time."
"Okay, Falco." I gave a smile.
Kurt didn't want to leave the topic of the story alone, "What's the next part of the story? You told the guy back at the barracks that 'a writer thinks beyond what they should' or something like that. What's next?"
I made up that thought on the spot. I didn't actually believe in it. I said cheekily, "I guess you're going to have to read it in the papers like everyone else."
XXX
Come ceremony day, my military unit was given special uniforms. They were beige and lined with black stripes. It looked much like the uniform of standard soldiers. The unique factor was the metal pin that held the Eldian star engraved. We were given the typical helmets as well.
I slipped into the uniform carefully, trying my best not to scathe it. If I did, Kaslow would probably yell at me and make me do a walk of shame in the ceremony.
Viktor commented on the uniform, "I actually feel somewhat clean in this."
Kurt jabbed back, "You could feel like that every day if you take baths regularly like most humans do."
I ignored their comments and quietly placed my armband over the new uniform. I wore a soldier's skin yet still didn't feel like one.
Kaslow and other sergeants gathered the cadets from my barracks and other barracks. We spent thirty-plus minutes walking over to a field at the outskirts of the training camp. We were like a giant, unstoppable mass of ants trying to find our next mound.
Upon arrival at the field, Kaslow roared some directions. "Okay subordinate mutts, you're going to be divided into your respective military squads by alphabetical order." Some other sergeant whispered in his ear. "Okay, looks like you're already in that order."
While the sergeants figured out the next step, I observed the bleachers encompassing the field. They were quite drab, but the military budget probably could muster was the best. I also noticed the lines of chairs in the center of the field.
Kaslow cleared his throat and roared again, "Okay subordinate mutts, you are going to file into those chairs based on your military squad numbers. Stay in alphabetical order!" As per Kaslow's fashion, he didn't really tell us why we needed to sit in chairs. Another sergeant whispered in his ear again. He yelled. "Wait, that's wrong, never mind."
We spent the next few minutes sweating from the heat of the poorly ventilated uniform that trapped the sweat. The soldier in the sky slapped all his bullets of heat onto us. Thankfully, the sergeants finally clarified the instructions, and we all walked onto the bleachers. We sat in alphabetical order and made sure not to break up the squads.
The sergeants yelled at us with megaphones and gave us instructions on what the day would be like. Apparently, this ceremony was more about showing the nobility and politicians that fund the military what the sergeants accomplish than actually congratulating our efforts as cadets.
Typical Marley.
We spent an hour practicing walking on and off the bleachers by individual military groups. The speakers would yell a squad name, and the respective group had to walk orderly of the bleachers and form a matrix in the center of the field. Apparently, the chairs were for the nobility and politicians to observe the dogs they funded training for. We had to practice barking out the country's slogan, "Marley is good. Marley is great."
Not the best slogan, but then again, it's not the best country.
After an hour, the money-drench nobles and politicians arrived at the stadium and sat in their chairs. Pompous women with their even more pompous skirts waved handheld fans in their faces as if the place was too filthy for them. Overweight politicians brought out their golden combs and fixed their combovers repeatedly.
It was my first time seeing rich people, and they definitely fit the stereotypes.
Some military officials spent twenty minutes giving a speech to these nobles, thanking them for their funding and whatnot. We are all basically legally obligated to clap for these buffoons in suits.
After a while, the formalities were put aside, and the individual squads were called out. The first group went down the bleachers as they were all created from animated sticks. These stick figures were reduced to only one representation as they gathered in the field center.
The soldiers stood like planks as the nobles ogled them. The politicians likely felt pleasured by knowing that their money funded well-groomed dogs that could kill on demand…
When my group was called, I got up from my spot and immediately began playing my character of a creature whose devil blood had been controlled through months of repetitive training. I stiffened my body with each step as I went down the stairs.
When arriving at the bottom, I quickly glanced to find Viktor and Kurt but realized that was an improper presentation. I kept looking forward towards the crowd of money-filled pigs. Their wallets and purses probably equaled my parents' entire funds.
When everyone in my group stood in a matrix design, we saluted in unison. A fit of faint anger baked me from the inside as I tried my best not to give a death stare at one of the politicians.
We chanted, "Marley is good. Marleyan is great."
I officially became a weapon of my oppressors.
The Real Author's Note
Guys, I don't know I managed to write over 18,000 words in two weeks. That's THREE times the usual production by my usual rate. I can't guarentee this is sustainable though.