2: Gunfire Matured

2 months ago

-Rehanna-

@-Rehanna-

“Captain Raizada, mail”.

The letter was flung into his chest; sharp and slicing as it nipped the skin of his chest before falling into his lap.

“Must be a mistake” he held the envelope out, barely glancing at it, “I don’t get mail”.

“You do now” the man shrugged, moving onto another soldier before he could get a response.

Though the letter was light, it felt like dead weight in his hand; the kind that shoved him down deep into the flimsy mattress beneath him.

Lifting it slowly, he slid his nose across the top, a faint scent of vanilla and spice filled his nostrils and he sighed in relief- this was not Sheetal’s deathly blend of expensive oils and powdery make up.

“Captain” a man removed his cap, salutes sharply and stamps his feet.

“At ease, soldier” his voice is hoarse yet still carries the weight of a storm as he watches the younger man before him; a nice kid, perhaps too nice and definitely not meant for war, yet here he was fighting one.

And wasn’t that evident of how evil the world had become.

“Captain, I hope you don’t mind, but I signed you up for the civilian and soldier pen pal programme” his voice shakes a little now, yet still he stands firm.

“And what made you think that was a good idea?” Accusation and disdain is slick like velvet from his tongue as the words break out from gritted teeth.

“Captain, if I may be frank?” He doesn’t wait for approval, just continues; “No war can be fought with weapons alone, the residue of any battle lingers within and if we don’t have anywhere to put it, anyone else to help us hold it, we drown in it”.

He wants to say: ‘I don’t want to see you drown’ but that would be a lie, the Captain has already been drowning and without a single thing to keep him afloat he’ll soon go under, and NK couldn’t bare to see that.

“I have no interest in speaking to this,” he waved his hand around aimlessly, unsure of how to finish his sentence with a label that fitted the person who wrote to him without knowing him at all.

“This?” NK probed, a dangerous mischief dancing in his eyes.

“This” he halts, this what?

This stranger? This lifeline? This f*cking softness that still lingered?

He had no idea. He didn’t want one.

“Not everything deserves a label, Soldier”.

“What makes someone worth one?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, he just walks away.

XXX

The eerie beep of a monitor was like tinnitus in his ear; ringing, dull and claustrophobic.

The swinging light above him that crackled with misplaced energy made him groan and he threw his arm over his eyes in defence.

The letter was still on his chest.

He hadn’t moved it. Hadn’t opened it. Hadn’t tossed it away.

He’d just let it sit there, burning into his skin like a branding that hissed of burning agony with possibility; of pain, of heartache, of feeling anything good that inevitably led to bad.

He should have gotten rid of it; tore it up, shredded it, burnt the edges with his cigarette and watched the edges curl inwards as they tried to escape the flame.

But he didn’t.

Instead he rested his hand above it, not to hold it, but just to feel the warmth that radiated into his palm as if it belonged there.

The scent still lingered, like freshly baked cookies and a home that always tasted sweet.

He hated it.

He hated that it smelt of dreams he didn’t even bother to taunt himself with.

He hated that it reminded him of what he thought he had…but never did.

“Urghh” he groaned, turning on his side so the letter hit the ground with a soft thwack. This was stupid.

Why did he even care what it said? It wasn’t like it could fix anything.

Could it?

No!

He eyed the letter, eyes narrowed and squinting as the morphine caused blood to pound his skull.

He didn’t pick it up.

He didn’t sleep either.

XXX

‘Hello’.

Scribbling her pen against the paper, she exhales.

Why was this so hard?

It was just a letter. It was just a start.

She knew she had to start somewhere- but from where?

Glancing down at the many crumpled pieces of paper now overfilling her bin, she collapsed her head into her palms.

Khushi had been taught that a wife was best kept when she could be seen, never heard, but she wasn’t writing as a wife, no, she was writing as Khushi, who she used to be, who she used to embody.

God, she couldn’t even remember who that was.

‘Hi’.

‘Dear Soldier’.

‘Hey Stranger’.

‘Hey’.

Goodbye. This was useless.

She couldn’t even begin, let alone continue. This was ridiculous.

Scratching her nails through her hair, she breathed out a whooshing sigh as they grated against her scalp.

Then it hit her, almost like a wave that washed over her and left her clean and new.

She finally knew exactly what to say.

XXX

“Good night?” Arnav reads aloud, his brows knitted and a frown on his lips that poke at his protruding cheekbones and highlight his taut jaw.

Who the f*ck starts a letter with good night?

“I realised no one ever starts with wishing you a good end, it’s always about the beginnings, but they never create the story, they never hold the depth, they don’t…linger”.

He swallows. Harshly. His throat is dry.

“Everyone hopes the sun will come out tomorrow” his eyes scan the line, bile slithering up his chest. “But no one ever yearns for the moon; perhaps the aim is not to light up a day that already glows, but to shine something on the darkness so a weary soldier can see their way through”.

He scoffed then.

Of course.

She’s just a ‘do good for the crowd’ type, she believes she can understand the war he fights, the war within just by being poetic.

He’s about to crumple the paper in his fist when the next line grabs him by the throat and forces him to sit up straight.

“I wasn’t talking about you- by the way- I was talking about me, I don’t fight the kind of war you do, actually”.

He grimaces, eyes fluttering shut for a second so he can digest the words he fears she might say.

“I don’t fight at all”.

The words echo like gunfire.

“My name is Khushi”.

The corner of his lips twitch, not quite a smile, not quite a frown.

“But I haven’t been Khushi for a while now”.

It’s as if he can see her shaking her head at herself as he grips the paper a little harder to focus on the next line.

“I suppose this all seems rather sad, I don’t mean it to be, I just, I just wanted to be honest, to be real”.

His heart clenches.

“I’ll end this with Good Morning, I hope it is good for you, I hope”.

He frowns, the lines on his face harsher now.

“You hope what?”

Then, at the very bottom, he sees the scribbled out words, barely, he makes it out.

“I hope you’ll write back, not because I need you to, but because I hope I didn’t end this before it started, I don’t like to think about what could have been, but never did”.

The paper falls from his hand and his eyes shutter close.

“Khushi” he whispers, so earnestly into the void of silence as he shoves himself back into the bedpost, far, far away from the letter that stares into him with a gaze too riveting.