Orders We Don’t Come Back From

Twenty-one years. Six months. Four days. That’s how long I was a die-hard patriot.

Three years. Six months. Four days. That’s how long I was fighting that godforsaken war.

Nine months. Twelve days. That’s how long I was held captive.

Nine months. Eleven days. That’s how long I was alone in captivity.

Forty-seven years. Ten months. Sixteen days. That’s how long I have had to live with what I did.

I’ve killed men—that’s war. I probably killed some women too, but most of the time you don’t get close enough to even see whose eyes you’re making lifeless. Powerful men tell you where to point your gun, and you shoot. Powerful men decide who our enemies are. Weak men leave them to die. 

Samuel, my younger brother, was in my unit during the war. It’s nice to be in hell with someone you love, but never forget it’s hell, not for a second. Samuel and I, we were the aces of the unit. We were tasked with transporting a message to a field commander. That message never reached Colonel Flax. 

Samuel and I were captured. We were pigheaded. Careless. Samuel was the younger one of us, and those bastards decided he would be the easiest to break, and they were right. 

We had orders. 

“If you are captured, you die before you talk.”

Samuel knew it, and he knew he was going to break. 

That first night, Samuel went to sleep and never woke up.