.

Why He Told Her to Run

our hands are artificially crafted,

mechanized but programmed

so they can learn the softness

of palms blooming open,

the brevity of a heart's bandwidth—

but warfare,

oh, how it rips the humanity

out of us machines,

rewriting our souls.

— alexis ma —

x

[ inspired by former poet laureate, stanley kunitz,

and his poem, reflection by a mailbox ]

i. the magnitude of sacrifice

The grenade explodes. There had been ample warning, no doubt. The distant click of the pull cord; the whir of the rotating wooden stick; the clatter of the steel cap hitting the ground—too close. They are too close. Four and a half seconds. Not enough time, Major Bougainvillea knows this from the get-go. His gut, his military instinct, tell him so.

He knows they won't make it out of here alive.

If not from detonation, then from structural damage. Whether he's referring to the building's integrity or Violet's loss of blood, her unanticipated amputation of both arms, he isn't sure. Not that it matters; either option has the complete and unadulterated capacity to kill. And the major is competent enough to know when to surrender, even if it reduces his options down to breaking protocol. Even if it means sacrificing his one chance at getting out of here.

He knows, without question, that Violet could do it if he ordered her to. She'd carry him out of his grave using her tiny body as leverage, hauling his half-limp, half-dead mass over and splayed across her back. If she couldn't do that, then she'd lunge for his uniform, biting down with a pressure that cracked teeth, that busted gums.

It isn't until the major's own body collapses against the wall that he realizes she's already tried this. The sight of her mouth filling with something akin to blood but not quite—a combination of internal compromise and gunpowder debris—leaves the major sick to his stomach. He didn't even have to ask; she'd acted of her own free will, breaking herself to a point of no return in an attempt to save him. Sacrifice, she'd call it. More like suicide.

Not on his watch. Just get her out! Get her out now!

"Stop," he whispers, the sound a broken one falling from his lips.

The corridor begins to disappear as fatigue sets in. Violet is disappearing, too; the tugging sensation at his tunic is the only indication that she hasn't abandoned him. He keeps his one remaining eye trained on her face, watching the frustration and determination override everything else.

She should be scared. She should be terrified.

She shouldn't be here in the first place.

He dragged her here. He dragged her down and to this hell.

If he doesn't stop her now, he'll be the one digging her grave. Not a chance. He's got enough of her blood on his hands as it is. The fact that she's wearing his blood as though it's war paint is already unbearable—it screams Violet's confidence in him; "I am on his side. I am his weapon. Fight me if you dare." It incites possession. It claims ownership—"I am his. I am his. I am his."

It is a burden that the major doesn't want, for he has never, not once in the four years that they've been together, considered her a weapon of mass destruction. He thinks of her as a child, a child with a spirit that promises wildness and passion. But he had given her the tact, the skill, enough of it so the enemy could nickname her "Leidenschaftlich's Soldier Maiden."

Of all the things he ever gave the girl, her name had been the one thing he'd hoped she'd keep. Not soldier, but Violet.

"Violet, just stop!" he tries again. This time, the anguish is evident in his voice—a plea. He is begging her now.

Relief finds him as she slumps against the ground, lungs brokering for oxygen in the musty haze. It's defeat if he ever heard it. It's equivalent to looking Death in the eye and saying "take me." The major catches her expression in the vignette of tunnel vision; she is accepting their fate. A fate that shouldn't be hers, but has been given to her nonetheless. The notion of dying is one that every soldier is forced to wrestle with, but then again, Violet never was a soldier.

"You have to live," he murmurs.

From a few inches away: a quiet gasp. The major knows she's listening. His words are meant to be interpreted as orders (the first of which he's ever wanted to give), the very last she will ever receive from him—the major will see to it that they are.

"Violet, you have to live. Be free," he says with as much strength as he can muster, but the salty wetness on his cheeks betray him.

This is where he struggles. This is where he stumbles. The major trips over a breath, coughs, and then sags like a ragdoll against the wall. The energy he unearthed just moments ago—gone.

This is the hard part. Saying goodbye.

This is why sacrifices are so very far and few between, rare. They are almost impossible to endure. This is why the major—well aware of the dwindling seconds before his death is inevitable—smiles and murmurs, "from the bottom of my heart, I love you."

He doesn't expect anything in return. Not love, not even an answer. How could he? Violet is a child of her age—of desperation, of war, of fear. Teaching her to read, write, and speak could do nothing to alleviate that. Giving her a name that held little semblance to the girl he envisions after the war… well, a name can't reprogram her to be someone she isn't ready to be. It just isn't possible, especially when he is the one responsible for taking a chisel to her life and carving it into slivers. He'll never forgive himself for ripping the humanity out of her.

Yet, he hears it, hears her: "Love? What is love?" A heavy breath, followed by a wail, "What is love? I don't understand!"

Of all times, he realizes, she picks now to be human.

Dammit, Violet.

Her cries are drowned out by the resounding echo of a shuddering foundation. The building is about to collapse. Stones give way, walls cave-in. Even the major senses that things are at the breaking point—both the enemy's headquarters and Violet's fragile heart—and turns to find the corridor they're occupying quickly falling to ruin. Snapping his neck back to Violet, he almost urges her to run one last time; "save yourself!" he wants to scream. But no, even with his groggy eyes, he notices the way in which her body sways, unresponsive to her surroundings, blood trickling dry.

Dammit! Violet!

In one second, the major is backed against the wall, body on the brink of shutting down for good. The next, he is putting his entire weight behind his palms and shoving. He is pushing Violet out of the way. And Gilbert prays, with all his might, that it had been enough to spare her—the girl he ruined—any more pain.

ii. unbearable heat

He can't bring himself to accept it, the fact that he survived.

While sustaining a gunshot wound to the eye would normally be enough to fracture a skull, the metal shell lodging itself between folds of grey matter—Gilbert had been lucky. Too lucky. He'd dodged a bullet. In war, such luck was the stuff of myth, of legend. He should be grateful, he really should. Grateful for the angle at which the gun had fired (any degree higher—a straight shot, for instance—would have ended his life immediately upon impact); for the puncture in his abdomen and not his lung; for the thick meat of muscle in his bicep, which slowed the cartridge's momentum before shattering bone. Had it not, then Gilbert would have lost his arm, just like Violet.

Violet…

She's the other missing piece to this equation, for why Gilbert can't accept that luck had been on his side.

How could he survive when she didn't?

Is she dead? Yes, because if she were alive, she'd be here with him, tugging on his sleeve. She never left his side; why would she break bad habits now, of all times?

Gilbert doesn't want to picture it—her body cold; blood soaked through her uniform; blonde hair snagged beneath loose rocks; blue eyes open and wide and lifeless—but he does anyway. He accepts the montage of grotesque images so readily because, while painful, in the end, he killed her the moment he agreed to raise her four years back.

He deserves this punishment.

For how could he live and she not? How could the Galdarik soldiers that unearthed his own mangled heap of broken limbs take him, but not find her? Surely, she'd avoided the building's imminent collapse (he'd pushed her out of the way, for God's sake!) so why did they leave her to bleed out, to die?

She's as good as gone, Gilbert realizes for the umpteenth time; it is no less devastating than the last. Because every time the blurred light overhead flickers, he is, once again, blind. The deep recesses of his mind take him back to that corridor, the stairwell long and empty and echoing of Violet and her gut-wrenching despair. It unsettles him, all but the absolute affliction bearing down on his heart. Because every time a shadow ghosts over his wounds, scalpel in one hand, gauze in the other, he is pinned down by the throes of memory. He pushes images of her face away, of the emerald brooch peeking out from beneath her collar, of crystal-blue boring into him, goading him to claw, to bite. Because every time he fights the stinging sensation unfurling in his bicep, the uncomfortable yank and tug of needle stitching skin, something restrains him.

But he wants to escape.

Surviving had been the last thing he wanted because he knew, oh he just knew, that if Violet didn't make it, she'd haunt him for the rest of his life. His memories of her, that is: gun equivalent to child's play; slitting throats as easy as slicing berries, red juices oozing; forest flames raging as though they were candles—Violet had been burning, fuck. A spitting image of uncontrollable, of uncontainable power.

Turbulent girl. Tornado wind. Growing wildfire.

Gilbert is burning up just thinking about it, about her. He is sweltering, sweat beading on his forehead, joints aching with heat exhaustion. At least the poking and prodding has ceased in his extremities, or at least, the feeling of being picked apart has gone away. Probably numb. Gilbert doesn't think he can tolerate being touched right now—he'd surely implode with disseminating anger and helplessness. But the telltale signs of movement are ever-present, glinting metal instruments passed back and forth across the operating table.

He doesn't know how long he's been here, lying on the table, exposed. Could have been minutes or hours or days. He can't bring himself to care who is cutting him open, or why. They could be unspooling his brain and he wouldn't give a damn. Make me forget, he almost begs. Anything would be better than remembering. Anything to repress her. But she is still here, a phantom pain growing from his open left palm, spreading over his skin in vine-fashion; Gilbert prays that this will be over soon. The quicker they finish mending whatever injuries they can, the faster the heat wave will pass. It's too hot, too hot, too hot.

Someone must have noticed his fever because all Gilbert hears is, "his temp is through the roof," and "tighten that tourniquet, dammit!" and "maybe we should let 'im go, not like keepin' 'im around is gonna do us any favors."

Gilbert wants to say, "yes, just let me go," but the words don't come—his lips can't even open they're so cracked and raw. He is essentially trapped, unable to break free of this burning house, of Violet. She is keeping him from speaking, from pleading for murder.

They give him a shot of something, liquid cool spreading from its entering point. It hardly does anything to put out the searing fire, but it knocks him out of his misery.

Sleep takes him. He goes without putting up a fight.

x

They work him like a dog. Galdarik soldiers patrol the grounds of Menace Camp. They gather misplaced superiority and force him to his knees, gun to his head. Just one of many prisoners, nameless. Shovel faster. Uproot soil. Break ground. Dig deeper.

They neglect to tell him the purpose. They never tell him how deep to dig, only deeper.

He wonders if he'll ever get out. The ditch is of his own creation; the depth of it is fully-realized by nightfall when his phantom pain reawakens.

She never lets him sleep, as if to say, who's the bitch now?

The shovel in his hands slips from his fingers. Handle clatters in the echoing abyss. The reverberation is enough to make his ears bleed, but fingers that press to cartilage reveal nothing but sweat, but grime. He's filthy. This hole is nothing but pebble and soot; will he ever hit the bedrock? Just how far will these bastards make him dig?

The echo persists, but in it, he hears her voice and knows. Apparently, shoveling six feet under the ground is far from the end. A bullet to the head would be too great a blessing.

Now, a bullet to the arm, that is the equivalent to wasting away.

He grips his purple-blemished bicep, gangrene setting in. His arm is limp in his blistered hand, it is numb save for the pins and needles in his fingers. They removed the bullet but took chunks of broken-beyond-repair flesh. They dissected out his eye; they stitched his abdomen into discord a few weeks back. Not like it mattered, a mistake on their part. Because the infection, the shrapnel in his arm—it survived. It's spreading, and fast.

The trench is already akin to cave in regard to darkness, but somehow, all light, all brightness—it leaves him. His head is spinning, his one eye closing. He stumbles forward, reaching for a wall to brace himself, but his hands slip on nothing and he falls. He collapses, lungs jarred, heart jostled. Everything inside of him rips apart, unraveled, undone. His last breath is dedicated to a whisper. Violet.

x

"What is… "

"Major, you're… okay?"

"—your name?"

"Answer…"

"We… losing him."

"—coming 'round…"

"Your name! Your…"

"He won't… sedative… drowsy…"

"His name though…"

"—useless… possible concussion…"

"Memory…"

"Least of his worries…"

"We're going… do it."

"You can't! He'll…"

"—no other choice…"

"—don't know who he is."

"Not like… matters."

"—too far gone."

"Infection?"

"Worse… seps—"

"—chance of it, no choice."

"No other option… what about…"

"Just this… to live…"

"But his arm…"

"—if he wants to live."

"We have no choice."

"—going to ask again…"

"—your name, sir?"

"Why… care so much… prisoner of war…"

"Still… human…"

"Not after this—"

"—won't ever be the same."

"When he wakes…"

"If he wakes up…"

x

My name is Gilbert Bougainvillea—

—and her name is Violet. She doesn't have a last name. She doesn't belong to anyone. Just Violet.

Just a girl. A girl who lost both of her arms. Blonde hair. Blue eyes—

—please, tell me you've seen her.

Please, tell me she's still alive.

Is she the reason you know my military ranking?

Is she the reason I'm alive?

Please, Violet, be alive.

x

day sixty-four

status report barely breathing but I'm alive I just don't know how much longer I can hold on to this bed to this gravity to her she could have let go a long time ago maybe she's already waiting for me on the other side I wouldn't know it but perhaps it's time to send in my resignation perhaps it's my time to go now

for I no longer feel anything

anything except her phantom existence phantom pain phantom dream

I don't know which is better

but either way she is nothing but a figment of my overused bone-dry imagination

nothing but a dull ache in my arm

I feel a growing pressure there now maybe this is her way of saying it's time to go let me take you up on angel's wings

but my arm is growing heavier and heavier the weight is so challenging I feel myself tumbling to the floor I feel the rotting wooden planks beneath my face I feel my body giving into relentless tremors I feel a tug then a pull I feel like I'm being pulled I'm definitely being pulled carried more like my legs have abandoned me long ago so someone else must be doing all of the heavy lifting I know it I feel it my feet are dragging across the floor the tent flap brushes my face and I'm breathing outside smoke fills my lungs is this fire is this how it feels to burn perhaps I am going to Hell but the aggressive pull the exhausted pant of my vehicle is enough to know that this is reality that I am still alive

I must fight the someone pulling me says you must fight lift your legs help me save you in return for saving me

but the only person that I ever saved had been her and it's just not possible she's dead she's dead she's dead but ghosts can't touch can't carry they can't be seen

except I'm seeing I'm touching I'm feeling her small body blonde hair blue eyes robotic arms two of them and they're hauling me across the ground tears are falling and I no longer know if they're hers or mine

major she pleads please help me save you

and she is here she is pulling she is saving me but the world is burning and I can't breathe neither of us can the ashy air is suffocating the heat of the fire is too close

I want to save her this time but I can't

get up major get up I can't carry you like this

I just can't my vision has been gone for days my lungs are gasping and she's here again we're both here and she hasn't learned to run to leave me behind

telling her to run hadn't been to save her it had been to save myself to kill the monster I have become to put down the beast she has made of me I made her this I asked where her loyalties lie and she answered with this with me when really she should have been loyal to the body the muscle and skill and absolute power that had brought her to me to my crushing blow

she belongs to herself I took that belonging away from her

yet she is kneeling over me she is balancing my head in her lap she is crying God she is crying over me and my voice is failing me I don't have the strength to tell her to go even though I should it will be my last chance to reprieve myself to let her go for her to let me go but I just can't for some unfathomable reason I can't bring myself to relinquish our past our trauma for we lived it together and no matter how much I've hurt her I can't

major major major

the only energy that remains I dedicate to this

"D-don't… le-ea-ve m-me."

x

Gilbert feels a whisper of movement over his left hand. It's cold. It's unfamiliar. It's a dead sensation. The phantom pain has returned.

As he groggily opens his eyes, however, to the white ceiling and the white walls and the white bed of what must be a recovery room, there is a flash of blue, a glint of metal, and the phantom pain hardens; his prosthetic hand is clasping typewriter-bound fingers. The pain is real, she is real, and that's more than enough for him.