We Aren't Monsters

It takes a long time to burn the bodies. Not just because there are so many of them, but because bodies are soggy. Human beings are basically more wet than anything else.

It doesn't help that we've had so much rain. It's coming down again now. Enough to slow the job, but not enough to wash the ash and blood from my hands. Maybe never enough.

But it was necessary. Informants and traitors, to a man. Or woman. We didn't harm the children, of course. We aren't monsters. They will be placed with good families in the community and well taken care of.

You'd think any decent person would feel sick at the smell of it all, but it turns out it's despicable how quickly the horrifying becomes just another detail. I'm not sickened anymore. It's unpleasant, yes, but I just want the grisly business done. The scarf over my nose and mouth is for the smoke more than anything else. Smoke that still stings my throat, makes me cough.

I can hear the last of them now, the wailing and pleading. Just another detail. It'll stop soon enough. We're almost done.

It helps that it's nighttime. The night lends an unrealness to the whole thing; makes it more bearable. Surely another reason to get this thing done. Get it finished under the blanket of darkness. Don't let the sunrise kiss this scene. If the bodies are burnt to ash and the bones scattered, we can almost pretend, in the cold light of day, that none of it was real.

The night feels long. I want to return to Fiona and the little ones. Isn't that why we do it? To maintain order, to keep good folks like us safe? (Good folks. Like us.)

I'll scoop up Charlie, Olivia and Theo, and hug them, knowing (thank goodness) that we're on the right side. The stink of cooking human flesh still tainting the inside of my nostrils. Washed away, possibly, by the innocent residue of bathtime, clean pyjamas, fresh bedsheets. I'll bury my face in their hair as if it could cleanse me. Maybe it will. Maybe.

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Word count (excluding note): 366

Submitted on 7th March at 18.10

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