Frost

Later, when we were dismissed and I was heading out of the building with the rest of my unit, he grabbed my arm and pulled me aside, both of us casting frantic glances around to see if anyone took any notice.  Him being here was a major breech of protocol, not that I gave a damn.  But it’d be best if someone who did give a damn didn’t notice.

            When we were safely aside and out of sight, I looked at him and smiled but continued to glare to be sure that he saw my anger. 

            He saw it but ignored it, placing both of his hands on my shoulders.  My face turned hard when I saw his eyes; there was a panic and fear in those icy pits that frantically searched my eyes for any response. 

            “How are you?” he managed after a moment of what supposedly was a meaningful unspoken conversation of eye contact.  That’s what he’d meant by it.  Sure as hell not what I meant. 

            “What the hell are you doing here?” I replied, not giving a damn about his the pleading look in his eyes.

            “I…”  He opened and closed his mouth, obviously insulted, trying to formulate an answer.  He sighed and looked down, finally recognizing my anger for what it was.  “I… I’m on leave,” he finally managed.

            Bullshit.  No one’s on leave.  He’s here on assignment and he’s a really bad liar.  But I’m too smart to call him out on it right now.  So I’ll play along to prove that I am the better liar.

            “The tin soldier returns home triumphant,” I replied with all the sarcasm I can muster.

            His jawline tightens, now slightly pissed off.  Good.  “Triumphant?” he breathed, half to himself.  “Weren’t you listening in there?  It was hell!”

            Actually, I was listening.  I listened to him talk about a world full of liars and killers.  Of blood and death and pain that never go away.  About life that seems like death and that weird feeling when death feels like life.  He’d said a hundred times in there that we’d never understand until we were actually there, knee deep in blood. 

            But it’s the same damn story here.  There might not be a war going on in my backyard but I know.  D****t, I know!  I know what it feels like to see blood pouring out of a body, unable to scrub it or the guilt away no matter how hard you try.  I am surrounded by liars and killers.  D****t, I am a liar!  And a damn good one. 

And I know Death.  He’s that caped figure whose face is covered in blood that lives in the shed in my backyard and sneaks into my room every night after dark.  I know Death.  He’s that shadow standing behind me that no one can quite make out.  But he’s there, looking over my shoulder, asking, begging me to join him. 

D****t, I live Death.

            “It hasn’t been much better here!” I shouted back, refusing and unable to convey to him all that I should say about life here.  I had to maintain the pretense of my lie, even to him.  Because I don’t trust him.  I don’t trust anyone.  I’m a liar and I see straight through other people’s lies.  That’s how good I am.

            (And let’s be honest, I lie to myself all the time.  And still, I never believe me.)

            I could explain nothing to him.  Because he’s a soldier and therefore thinks he has all the answers.  So I glared at him and my eyes told him the lie that he wanted to see.  That I was angry because I missed him.  Not because the world fell apart after he left or because he abandoned me and left me behind when he was supposed to be there to hold me when I cried and protect me from the shadow looming over my shoulder. 

            He didn’t get any of that.  And he never could. To him, I was his emotionally wrecked teenaged sister who was lonely and confused and unable to control her mood swings and hormonal imbalances.  Who missed her brother desperately.

So I gave him that image of the stupid, teenaged girl.  That’s what he wanted to see.  He wanted to be the hero.  Though I had many ways to prove to him that he was no hero, I let him believe that he was. 

Because I am a damn good liar.

He searched my eyes and took the bait.  Good.  I glared at him and he believed what he wanted to see. 

“It was hard out there,” he said again, as if that justified everything.  He’d been fed that ends and means s**t from day one, so to him, I guess it did justify everything.  He shook his head.  “Look, can I come by?  I know it’s dangerous, but I want to be home.  Can I?  Please, Bam?”

(He called me Bam.  S**t!)

“Not now,” I said quickly glancing at my watch.  Five o’clock.  “Mom’s sleeping and she’ll be pissed off if you wake her.  She’s been assigned the night shift at the hospital.  She sleeps the rest of the day.  Come by at eight.”  I lied and it fell smoothly from my tongue.  Well practiced, perfectly utilized, and believable. 

He nodded slowly and met my eyes for a second.  “See you then, Bam.”

(D****t!)

“Bye, Gabriel.”  And he walked off.

I wondered briefly if he had merely been conditioned to believe only lies.  That would explain his stupidity.  The government was good at lying.  But I was better. 

And I wondered, for a moment, that if he were told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he might just drop dead.

Author's Note

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