You don’t have much time. The final part of your kit is taking too long to put on. Fuck, the zip just won’t go. Your comrade is screaming your name. It’s not fucking zipping. Your disgruntled, irritated comrade paces up to you, his rifle strapped to his side. He tries to zip it up, but the rifle proves to be an obstruction. He unstraps the rifle, and in an instant, the zip is up.
“There’s only one way to do this.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Why haven’t you gotten it yet?”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”
“Here.”
He hands you a rifle - your rifle. Yours has a small picture of your mom and a symbol you’re fond of stuck to the heel with some old shoemaker’s glue. His is plain. He pulls you by the hand, moving past quickly in zigzags, unbothered by the others in front of him, masking discomfort with a large gait, rifle swaying every which way. You’re flustered; your legs must keep up with his, adjusting the rifle isn’t easy either, and you surely must say sorry to the people you’ve hit in the ruckus, unbothered or not. You’re trailing the army of other comrades, all stacked in full gear, helmets and all, their rifles fully loaded. The escalation is all dependent on you. You are at the front lines. The good thing is that your comrade is there with you. You’ve known him since the second year of secondary school. He was a transfer student that you quickly became friends with, brothers even. He’s always been a fast runner, and although you tried, he was always beyond your reach. He knows this, but he couldn’t care about that right now. You both are supposed to be at the front lines, and thankfully, quickly enough, too, you’re there now. You take a moment to catch your breath. Fuck. You didn’t check whether your gun was loaded. You can’t do that now. You were really bummed out by the football game that was on last night: your favorite club is Liverpool. They won, but they didn’t play too well. You slept off early to get your mind off it, gun unloaded. You frantically frisk through your kit. Your comrade looks at you and tells you he loaded it up for you. You thank him and raise your gun at the emergency.
The alien - ominous, tempered, quiet. The alien is at a standstill with the army before it. You wonder if it speaks, and almost like it heard your thoughts, it says something. You’re shocked. You cock your rifle and place your finger on the trigger. The alien says something again. How can it speak? No. How dare it speak?
“Stop talking!” you say at the top of your voice. Your comrades yell you on. The alien opens its mouth to speak again - you give it a final warning. “Dumb fucking alien,” you whisper under your breath. The alien ignores your warning. You shoot. Headshot. It falls to the floor in a flash. But just as quickly as it dies, another alien appears.
The new alien starts to talk. It’s more taciturn than the first one. You shoot at it; it dies. Another alien appears, even less talkative. You shoot at it; it dies. Then another one. Where are they coming from? You shoot at it; it dies. Your comrade gives you a worried look, but you don’t care. Another alien appears, but this one doesn’t speak at all. It stands without movement. You’re about to pull the trigger once more, but your comrade shouts at you to stop. You begrudgingly retract your finger from the trigger. The alien does nothing. Your comrade screams at it to speak. It takes a while, but the alien begins to speak. Softly and gently. It talks about why it’s here. You don’t care. You just wanna blow its fucking head off. You hate aliens. They’re a cancer to your existence. Suddenly, it says something that reminds you of mother. You shout at it to repeat what it said. It says it again. You lower your rifle. Your comrade gives you an even more worried look.
The alien wants to make you understand and maybe empathize, but you must be steadfast in your devotion to educated ignorance - no one else will be, so it must be you. You must kill the alien. But you see, the alien is already dead. No alien lays their self bare without death - without a departure of self, an unfair departure. You look at the picture of your mother on the rifle. Suddenly, nothing seems right. You look at your comrade, who is speaking to the alien. You look behind at the army with their guns cocked and pointed at the alien. So far, only you have killed. Your mother’s picture is staring right back at you. What would your mother say?
“The alien wants nothing from you, or your comrades, or the army before it. The alien only wants to exist.”
Your mother’s voice echoes in your mind, and you shake in fear, or maybe embarrassment, that you once were - are - a part of this. You turn your back and leave the battlefront, your rifle disassembled and dropped to the floor. You remove your headgear. You unstrap the kevlar. You mute comms. The uniform now fills you with profound disgust. Your head is held high as you walk away, saying you no longer want to be a part of this. You look forward in search of a new life with newly established hope and reinvigorated spirits. Your course is no longer chartered before you; it is yours to set. What possibilities could that conjure? This is your absolution. You hear the gunshots increase rapidly behind you, but this is not the life you want to live anymore. You don’t look back. The gunshots go off again, and incessantly so, but looking back means re-embracing what you have just left behind. That would be treason on your soul. You can’t. You must keep going.
“That was the peculiar, hand-written summary - written by Tolu Joseph, by the way, folks - of your memoir titled, "A Past Yet Forgotten." Firstly, this is a great book. It’s beautifully written, and the summary provides just crumbs of context to the journey of self-absolution you’ve been on. I want to commend you on it; it’s a fantastic achievement.”
“Thank you!”
“I’d just like to ask you one question if that’s alright.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s why I’m here.”
“I saw this book as you telling us that you’re free from the horrors now and want to move on, but what would you say is the biggest takeaway from this book?”