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[Issue 61] Memory Pt.5


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Memory Pt.2

Memory Pt.3

Memory Pt.4

 

A memory plays in my mind’s eye.

 

The wreckage of a home lies around us, the gray concrete offset by the colourful scraps of cloth and pictures strewn across the floor. A crunching heralds the arrival of Hauss, his boot crushing a stuffed toy lying in his path. The child standing next to me squeaks, her eyes bugging out. She’s been silent so far, an impressive feat for someone with a gun pointed at her head, and her brother kneeling in front of her with another gun pointed at his.

 

I look on in silence, not paying attention to Hauss’ words, instead watching the face of the brother. It’s a drama that I’ve seen play out a hundred times in a hundred different places, but it’s still the same wherever I see it. Hauss, menacingly standing over them. The gun pointed at someone they love. The battle of head over heart writing itself over their face, and the eventual breakdown and delivering of whatever information is required to ensure survival for both of them. All completely pointless.

 

Hauss walks ahead of Max and I as we leave the two bodies in the remnants of the house behind us. Max is silent, evidently pondering something. The detached way in which we shot? What colour to get his new wristwatch in? It’s hard to tell with him.

 

“What would we do if something like that happened to us?”. The question is abrupt, spoken with a furrowed brow. I consider it for a minute.

 

“Do the exact opposite of what those two just did, I suppose. We are us, and we don’t break, do we?”

 

***

The words ring in my ears, mingling with Hauss’ quietly spoken demand. Give him the weapon, or Max dies. It’s a different perspective than what I’ve known, when someone of yours is on the wrong side of that gun.

 

“We don’t break, Hayley. We agreed on that.”

 

The words are slurred, forced out of bloody and twisted lips, but they’re clear enough. They make the decision for me. We agreed on this.

 

Hauss’ face is blank as he takes in my response. He scrutinizes me for a moment, coming to a decision. And then he makes it.

 

Max slumps to the ground, a tunnel bored through his forehead, and even as the soldiers open fire, I activate the weapon.

 

The black surface dissolves, and then swallows me, enveloping me in my own temporary shield. I surge towards Hauss, his pistols’ bullets ineffective. Even as I collide with him and fall back, he takes aim again and his face splits into a manic grin.

 

It doesn’t last long.

 

I pull the pin from the grenade that I grabbed from his belt, and hurl it into the midst of the group of soldiers. It goes in unnoticed, camouflaged by the hailstorm of bullets that are now penetrating my shield. One lodges in my arm, and another in my knee. There is no pain. Just mild stings, even as I look down and notice the holes punched through my chest. They appear red and blurred through the shroud of mist enveloping me. I pitch forward, landing next to Max, his hand comfortably close to my shoulder.

 

Then there is light. Orange. Screams.

 

And then there is nothing.

 

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