[color=f7941d][u][b]Corporal Yazan Mohammad - Freeside - Morning, November 18th [/b][/u][/color]


Yazan was alone. The wastes of the Mojave stretched out before him, just barely visible in the dim starlight that strained through the clouds overhead. Ahead of him lay his comrades, asleep in a semicircle just below the rocky overhang of a small knoll. He felt their presence as sure as he felt the ground below his feet but he could not see them. Some dull ache in his chest that told him that just a few yards ahead lay the peace and security of his friends. He walked slowly towards them. It was more of a trudging motion as his legs were unsteady and he had to consider each step carefully like a crippled man learning to walk again. A cry broke the still night and the sound pierced its way into Yazan’s chest and tightened his gut into a painful knot. Gunfire erupted ahead of him and a chorus of strained voices grew to match the cacophony of automatic weapons.  

He tried to run towards the violence but stumbled blindly, falling and standing and falling again. His movements were languid and irregular as his body refused the orders of his mind. Tears of frustration bit at the corners of his eyes as he seethed with every breath. The voices of his comrades grew wretched and twisted and though he could see nothing he knew they were being butchered. Slaughtered like animals in the dark. In despair he slumped to his knees and pounded at the dirt below but even that felt forced and weak. Yazan lay there in defeat sobbing meekly as his friends pleaded for their lives, begged for a quick death, cried for their mothers and soiled themselves in pain and fear. He shut his eyes against the horror and tried to scream but only gurgled like a strangled infant. 

Yazan opened his eyes. He was alone in bed. For a moment he sat there and breathed, his body still trembling and sweating as the echo of his friend’s screams rang in his ears. The embassy bunk room was awash with the soft light of morning. Yazan rubbed his face and sat up. He grabbed his cup of water from the night before and drank deeply. It had been exactly one month since the attack and he hadn’t slept through the night since. The exhaustion was taking its toll on him and others were starting to notice. Just two days ago he’d sworn he had a conversation with Andrew and Leonid about the attack. Except he hadn’t. Leonid had been shipped back to his family’s home in Shady Sands and Andrew was still in the medical hospital at Fort Gulf. Sgt Kinney said he’d found Yazan alone in his room mumbling incoherently to the wall. Or had he dreamt that as well?

Yazan sighed and swung his legs over the bed, stood and dressed himself. His arms felt leaden and it was as if he moved through a daze. One moment he was pulling up his trousers, the next he was buttoning the top of his fatigues. Then he was in the small mess-hall they had put in at the embassy. It was little more than a glorified coffee station that served boiled oats and corn cakes. He sat numbly chewing on a crumbly piece of cake slathered with pear-jam.

“Where have you been?”

The voice came as a shock and Yazan jumped in his seat and choked on a bite of cake. He looked up at Sgt McKinny who stood arms crossed in the doorway. His expression was stern but he stepped forward to pat Yazan gently on the back as he struggled to swallow the cake. 

“We mustered in the courtyard fifteen minutes ago.” McKinny sighed and sat down next to Yazan. “Are you okay corporal?” 

Yazan nodded.

 “Yeah I’m fine.”

McKinny grunted then stood and looked out the door to make sure they were alone. Satisfied, he closed the door and sat next to Yazan. For a moment he just looked at Yazan like the young man was a puzzle decipherable only through long periods of observation. 

“Are you okay Yazan?” His voice was soft and Yazan almost physically recoiled at hearing his sergeant say his first name. 

“Yeah.” Yazan’s voice was almost a whisper. 

“I know this has been a difficult transition. Not just for yourself but all of us. I hadn’t expected to be reassigned to the ambassador’s honor guard. Not after what happened. But we grunts don’t get to make the decisions, we just have to survive them and find a way to keep living. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

“You mean the ambush.”

McKinny nodded. 

“That wasn’t our decision. But we survived and now we're living with it.” 

 “I know.” Yazan’s voice cracked. 

“Do you? Because I don’t think you do. It's no different than the Hunger. Some of us made it, some of us didn’t. That’s how you have to look at it. You cannot keep thinking about how you should’ve done this, or would’ve done that or could’ve done something else. Forget it. You were there and you survived. That's what's important. A lot of people didn’t make it. Remember them, and keep on living for them.”

Yazan nodded but he felt distant, like he was watching himself. The emotions within him had become so muddled and mixed that to find the words to express them felt as futile as finding a single poker chip in the wastes.

“Do you understand?” 

“How.” The word felt obtuse in Yazan’s mouth and he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to say it but he continued. “How do you deal with the feeling?”

“The fear? The pain?”

“No. The joy.”

McKinny's face puckered into a kind of sour confusion. 

“What joy?”

“The joy you feel when you look at your dead friends and you’re happy it's not you.” Tears stung at Yazan’s eyes. “How do you not hate yourself for it?”

“You do. But you keep going.” McKinny stood and smoothed his fatigues. “Now finish your breakfast and let's go. We have work to do.”