the american

something that moved me this afternoon. and i just felt like doing a little creative writing.

She was an American, yet only on the surface. The bags under her eyes, the succinctness in her voice, and the admirably fluent way in which she dealt with the natives all told a different story. She spoke of their suffering as if she were somehow removed, but I wondered how many sleepless nights she too had been forced to endure. I recognized her, and I knew she had been over there for a long time. She must be of a different breed; not many would throw away all that we fight for their job, not with eagerness. She certainly didn't do it for her job. I could see in her eyes a deep conviction, a motivation to be significant. She was fearless. I could not help but be surprised to see a woman of her looks choose such a lifestyle. She was cute, but she had long ago been starved of everything ladylike.

As she spoke, there was an explosion; a bomb. And she ran to it, fighting her own battle I am sure. Children huddled under their desks. Bullet holes still riddled the glass from the Soviet 7.62x39mm rounds that had blown away their teacher just yesterday. Blood still covered the wall. Then old women were showing us the teacher's blood-soaked clothes, and asking why. Asking her why, as if the American knew.

A little girl lay in a hospital bed. She was pretty. Family leaned over her to speak, but her eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling while her mouth sputtered incoherently in a pitiful whine that was mysteriously intriguing --a sound mixed from emotions I did not know. She was worried about her homework. Her mother wept. Then the whining increased, as she began to realize her own blindness. Wailing. Take me away from this misery, I do not wish to live. I watched and felt nothing, but tears came to my eyes and I began to sob for some reason. I tried to stop but couldn't. I wonder to myself, is this some kind of reflexive emotional response, or am I really compassionate? Or am I weak? Does a killer feel this, too?