Soldier On

I was always a quiet kid. Kept to myself, never raised my voice, hardly ever scraped with other kids. I’ve only really cried once, when I was twelve, on the day of dad’s funeral.

My father was a strong, hardy man. My first memory is him holding me in his arms, tossing me into the air like I weighed nothing. He worked with his hands, which were rough and calloused, yet gentle and warm with me, my mom, and my baby sister. Those hands had wielded both a table saw and an assault rifle, both chisel and combat knife with precision and accuracy. Hands that created, and hands that killed.

It was cancer that got him in the end, not a bullet.

When the men in uniforms stood at attention over my father’s coffin, a wellspring of feeling I didn't know existed swelled in me, and I felt the tears on my cheeks. That’s when I heard my father’s voice.

“Straighten up, little soldier,” just as forceful and caring as he had always said it. “Keep that head up, and keep marching.

Keep marching.

Keep marching.

I’ve been marching ever since.

…

The car ride was quiet, and the pulsing bruise over my eye wasn’t distracting enough. Mom’s hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight I’m surprised it didn't snap.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, young man?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Good God, Riley. Really? Fighting again?”

“Hey, Carson started it. I finished it.

“You dislocated his shoulder! After you punched him in the face and sent him to the ground.”

I was trying to break his shoulder. It would’ve taken a lot longer to heal. He would’ve learned his lesson. Now they’ll just pop it back into place.

Mom sighed. “For Pete’s sake, Riley. This is the third time this year you’ve gotten in trouble for fighting.”

“You didn’t hear what he was saying about Katie. It wasn’t just teasing, it was worse than that. Way worse.”

“Then you report him. You don’t attack him.”

“I gave him a chance to apologize. He chose violence.”

“You wanted him to choose violence.”

She’s not wrong. I saw red when he said those things about Katie. “Whore. Slut. Bitch.” It hadn’t been hard to push the right buttons. Unfortunately though, I’m pretty sure Katie might be scared of me now.

Ever since freshman year, Katie Hardinger was a beacon of light in an otherwise dim time which was high school. I was just happy she took time out of her day to acknowledge my existence. Something in Katie’s smile was different. Unfortunately, I was only ever guaranteed to see it in the art studio, fifth period. I never paid attention in that class. Not that I didn’t have talent; I used to love art class.

I just didn’t want to.

Too many memories. Too much reminded me of Dad.

Keep marching.

Dad’s mantra had gotten harsher over the years as I repeated them in my mind. But they were my orders. A soldier always carried out his orders.

“I taught you better than this, Riley.” She sighed. “Christ, what would your father think?”

There it was. The twisting knife.

I didn’t wanna say it. I really didn’t.

She started it. She brought Dad into it.

“Dad’s been gone for five years. How do you know what he’d say? Gonna dig him up and ask him?”

It had the intended effect. She said nothing more the rest of the ride,

Idiot. Apologize.

Keep marching.

I bit my tongue and rode in silence, my heart beating in my swollen eye.

…

The video of my fight was up on the internet by the time dinner was over.

Sitting in my room with a frozen bag of peas over my eye, I watched the shaky footage someone had taken of the fight and posted it. Although calling it a fight might have been generous. For all his boasting, Carson had no form or real power. The shiner on my eye had been pure luck, and a fault on my part by not blocking. The pain had woken me up though. It served its purpose and woke up my rage.

The pure, simple rage.

Though listening to Carson’s shoulder crack without the roaring in my ears was a little sickening. And an arm definitely shouldn’t bend like that. Maybe I had gone too hard.

The guy had it coming.

Sure, but, I could have left it at the punch in the nose. He was down.

He needed to feel pain. Real pain. Lots of pain.

I tossed my phone aside and left my room. Mom was downstairs in the kitchen, and I didn’t know where Sarah was. Probably in her room, playing with her blocks. Five year olds are easily entertained.

Their big brothers, not so much.

Outside, it was cool and crisp. Spring hadn’t quite arrived yet. The last streaks of deep orange shone through skeleton trees, the rest of the sky a deep bluish black.

My steps carried me to the side of the house. Gravel and leaves crunched, the only sound in the silence. The quiet of night was a heavy thing at my house, so heavy you could almost reach out and touch it.

When I reached the backyard, the swings on the playset were still as a graveyard. It was an impressive piece of woodworking. Monkey bars, a rope bridge, and a climbing wall were all perfectly cut and shaped, stained a flawless red that had yet to fade after so many years.

Dad made it himself, formed every plank, joist, beam, and socket with loving care. He brought me out on my third birthday, hands over my eyes, and laughed alongside me as I played on it for hours on end. Even after he got sick.

Why’d you have to get sick?

Don’t dwell. Keep marching.

Something whizzed past my vision, quiet as a whisper on rigid wings. The only sound came as the small feathered creature crashed into the ground, claws first.

The snake thrashed in vain as the talons sun into its scaly flesh. Its coils spasmed around the barn owl’s legs, a last ditch effort to live. The owl’s beak darted forward, putting an end to its struggles.

She was a beautiful bird, soft and graceful, yet she commanded a certain otherworldly presence. Her wide, circular face bore two wide unblinking eyes dark as a new moon, comically large on her tiny body. They peered at me as she stood over her kill, the tiniest flecks of blood staining her creamy plumage.

Her beak opened wide as she let out a screech before she unfurled her wings and vaulted into the air, her prize clutched in her talons. I watched her fly, until she dropped through a hole in the roof of the barn at the edge of the backyard.

Dad’s workshop.

I don’t know why I followed her.

…

The workshop was sacred ground.

Looking at it, it wasn’t much anymore. The paint was peeling and flaking onto the ground, sprinkling some of the fallen shingles. The stiff door hung on by a couple rusty threads, and when I pulled the door open, the stiff stench of dry rot and dust made my nose clench.

It was still more beautiful than any church could ever be.

Here, Dad created wonder. He had created life. He had toiled and bled over his works, forming incredible things with his chisel and saw. People paid a lot of money for his stuff.

Now they were idle things. The chisels were rotting. The saw had rusted. The piles of unused wood were warped and cracked.

Dead and rotten. Like Dad.

On the wall over his desk, I saw all the drawings I did for him, all the designs I came up with which I thought would make incredible carvings and creations. In hindsight, most of them would never have worked. But it was still fun to try.

Now, they were just as tattered and frayed and dead as everything else in the shop.

Before I knew it, I was crying.

Keep marching.

Why? What’s the point?

Because I say so. Keep marching.

How far am I gonna march?

As far as it takes. That's what a soldier does.

“I’m not a soldier!” My voice cracked when I said it. “I’m not a soldier. I’m just—”

I didn’t have an answer.

I heard a screech. It echoed off the walls, a breath of life in the dead place.

There was a sound, like the rustling of feathers, coming from the chest in the back corner. A chorus of small squeaks joined it.

As quietly as I could, I tiptoed over and peeked over the open lip. The owl stood amongst a collection sawdust and half finished wooden carvings, ripping off bits of the snake and shoving down the open mouths of three downy owlets. Their overly fluffy plumage was the color of old snow, and their eyes looked even more oversized than their mother’s.

They were cute actually. Cute and alive.

I don’t know why my hand moved, but the next instant she lunged, pecking and clawing with wild abandon. Feathers flew and talons slashed, carving bloody lines across my fingers.

I jumped back. She stood over her chicks, wings spread wide in an intimidation pose. Her screech turned shrill and laced with warning, her bloody warpaint evident on her beak and talons, ready to fight and die to protect her brood.

A creator and a killer.

A soldier.

…

There were plenty of sideways glances at school the next Monday. Everyone spoke in hushed whispers around me. Most gave me a wide berth. I caught Carson’s eye on the way to homeroom, his mangled arm in a sling. He and his friends immediately shied away from me, pressed back into the lockers.

He said nothing. Neither did I.

I just kept walking down the hall.

All day, I said nothing.

Don’t talk. Don’t make anyone else uncomfortable.

Stop being so soft. Be strong.

Shut up.

You have to keep–

Don’t you say it!

I almost said the words out loud. I’m not a soldier. I’m just…

I still didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

Fifth period came quicker than I expected. When I walked into the art studio, the familiar walls covered floor to ceiling with graphite murals and hardened streaks of melted pastels, I suddenly felt…unworthy. I hadn’t liked this place for a long time, but now, I wasn’t sure I should be allowed in here.

I wasn’t a creator anymore. I hadn’t been for a long time.

I took my seat, a blank canvas in front of me on an easel. Somewhere far from my thoughts, the teacher spoke to the class. My clouded thoughts drowned out any direction. Soon the sound of everyone’s pencils on paper made it through, and I looked up.

I didn’t expect to see Katie looking at me from across the room, her eyes darting between me and whatever she was sketching. My stomach felt painfully heavy. I could see the hesitation in her eyes, alongside the smallest sense of fear.

Looking at her, something in me relaxed, finding gratitude in her eyes.

Her lips, while they made no sound, made two words.

Thank you.

All I did was nod like an idiot. It must have been enough, because she smiled.

Keep marching, little soldier. Don’t forget to create.

I picked up my pencil.

…

Mom smiled when I hugged her that evening when I got home. I’m pretty sure she cried when I hung the picture in Sarah’s room. I think Sarah liked it too; she was bouncing and reaching for it in excitement.

Looking at it again on the wall, it wasn’t too bad. Two dark eyes, set in a wide, circular face, wings outstretched and beak open in silent screech.

And three tiny balls of feathers guarded under the talons.