This is an anti-war story and contains some violent content.
My Lie
I don't know why I stopped killing. Maybe it was her little round eyes. Her little what, eight--maybe nine--year old eyes? I slung my rifle over my shoulder and kneeled, reaching out a hand. She cowered and pressed herself harder against the corner, hugging her knees against her chest.
Outside, the sounds of war carried on. The derisive shouts of rampaging soldiers revealed the mayhem. The intermittent splat of burst fire from rifles reported the murders. The screams of the villagers were dying away, the brave having fallen already and the fearful cowering now with their voices stolen, like this little girl in front of me.
They’d be silenced soon, forever. Just like she would. What difference did it make if I wasn’t the one who killed her? If one of the others found her, she’d be dead anyway. It wouldn’t be long before someone else poked their M16 into the hut and dropped her without a thought.
I stood, walked to the open door and took in the spectacle. Bodies lay in the narrow packed-dirt street, blood pooled around them. The little man with the limp, who’d smiled at me as we walked into town this morning lay about five yards away, his wheelbarrow of roots upturned beside him. The old lady who gave me my bánh bao for breakfast was crumpled against a wall, her baskets of homemade goodness scattered around her.
Everywhere were people who’d been unexpectedly denied their lives while going about their day-to-day business. Soldiers still stalked among them looking for the wounded. Random shots around the village echoed wherever the survivors were found.
Down the street a ruckus broke out, followed almost immediately by rapid bursts of rifle fire. It was over in seconds. More death. More victory.
I stepped away from the carnage I had helped create. My little girl was still in the corner, wide eyes fixed on my every action.
My little girl. I only had a few minutes to decide how to save her.
I knelt again and held out my hand but she just cringed. She was staring at my rifle. I wasn’t going to have any luck as long as it was a part of me, so I unslung the weapon and tossed it behind me. I reached out to her again.
“Come on, sweetheart. I’m trying to help you. I don’t want to hurt you, honey. Come on, it’s okay. Come on, now.”
I edged slowly closer as I whispered to her, the way I’d approach a frightened cat back home. As I inched closer, my words became a soft sing-song-of-a-thing. She looked almost feral, but I could see she desperately wanted someone to rescue her. Hope appeared in her eyes as I stopped moving and let my hand hang limp in front of her.
“Take my hand, honey!” I stretched my fingers out to her and wiggled them. She looked at my hand and back to my eyes. I leaned forward just a bit and whispered, hoping she understood the only French I knew.
“Allons-y!”
Her mouth opened and closed, and she took my hand. I pulled her in close to me and hugged her tightly.
(story excerpt only)