Writing

Steel Lighter

“Why won’t you come dance?” She looked at me, her hazel eyes glistening. Covered in a fur coat like a wolf, her eyes looked like those of a sheep. Milky white pearls dangled from her neck, putting forth a rattling sound when she turned to face me.

“You know I don’t dance.” I replied. “I won’t do that sort of thing.”

“I don’t get you!” She snapped, “You won’t dance, you won’t drink, why won’t you let yourself relax? Why won’t you enjoy yourself?”

“This whole ordeal is hardly legal, you know that yourself. If I had any respect for my time in the military I would’ve already phoned the police.”

“Is that what this is about? Everything's always about the military with you! The war is over, relax a bit…” Her voice trailed off before she continued. “…or do you still feel guilty about what happened in Europe?”

“That’s it!” I barked in return. The party went silent, a hundred eyes turned in my direction. “You know better than to bring that up Clara, I’m going home.”

“No! Wait! I…” The emotions she’d been holding back came flowing forth, first as a trickle, then like a waterfall. She sobbed as I opened the door, I didn’t care, I’d made up my mind.

The night’s cold air slapped my face as I walked out. Maybe I deserved it. No, I absolutely didn’t. She knew better than to bring that up. She knew better than to bring me out in the first place. To help me relax she said, it's always about relaxing. How can I relax in a damned speakeasy? A white carton emerged from my pocket, followed by my steel flip lighter. As I lit my cigarette; the flame illuminated the unprofessional, hasty-looking engraving which read: "February 14, 1916, a platoonsman and a father, never forget."

Upon opening the door to the apartment, a set of familiar faces greet me. Framed on the wall of the entryway, four young men stand shoulder to shoulder. Each has a glowing grin not adequately captured in the grainy black and white photograph. The memories of what happened just two weeks after the photoshoot flood my mind. I swallow them down with a bitter nausea and proceed. Walking into the bedroom I am engulfed by a shapeless blackness. I reach for my lighter to spark the charcoal-black wicks of the candles on the nightstand and begin to feel a sense of dread. I feel something like a sharp spike piercing my chest, the veins in my head begin to throb and I feel my heart in my throat. I come to the realization that I’ve lost my lighter.

Hastily throwing my coat over myself and exiting the apartment I struggle to lock the door behind myself, my trembling hands will not allow me to do so. My boots make a splashing sound as they connect with the shimmering puddles in the street reflecting the moon’s incandescent glow. The overhead shower of rain does little to dampen my determination, following the path I took home I scour the surface of the cobblestone streets in hopes of seeing from a distance the mirror-like finish reflecting the moon back at me; I find nothing. Back at the apartment I collapse in my dark bedroom like a fell tree, despair chokes me and I am overtaken by sleep.

I awake to the sound of mortar and artillery fire. As I arise from my cot I examine the dark, concrete walls that surround me. I’m unable to see very far in front of me save for the momentary guiding light of a shell exploding overhead. The light from which floods into the coin-slot windows of the partially underground structure. From the ceiling a drop of water collides with my forehead. I sit fully upright and wipe the sleep off my face when I hear a familiar voice.

“Captain Jacobson!” The voice says a name I barely recall but I know he’s referring to me. “Sir, we’re under fire! The enemy is encroaching upon this position, we need to fall back to the trenches five miles south.”

“Nonsense,” I reply with no thought, “we will defend this position, we have the men and the resources, we need not give the enemy another foothold.”

“Sir, while you were sleeping we lost ten men. A lucky shell took out our only machine gun. We need to fall back.”

His words cut my heart, I feel an insatiable rage well in my stomach and rise to my head. “My orders have not changed, Private. Dismissed.”

He gives me a brief salute and runs to join his other comrades. Now standing, I walk to the window and retrieve the binoculars from my neck. I see them now, the gray uniforms with a scarlet smattering. Unwavering faces rush towards the bunker. As a moment of realization hits me, I hear gunfire to my left. I run to the doorway which connects to the left side of the trench, my boots smack the muddy walkway as I run to give new orders to the Private. He was right, it's too late. Stepping over the innumerable corpses that line the trench, I run to him. Kneeling at his side, he looks at me.

“I’ve failed Captian, we could not defend this position.” He coughs and a red splatter covers my clothes.

“You did not fail, Private, it's not over yet.” I do not believe what I’m seeing. I hoist the young man over my shoulders and run south into the forest. Stopping for nothing, I continue to sprint.

“Please, Captain, put me down.” I comply with his request as the situation before me becomes more real, the tangibility of it all assaults my mind at once and I nearly drop him. “Captain, I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, let me continue to carry you, we’ll make it to the southern encampment.”

“Captain, Sir, I’m dying. I’m not going to make it to the camp. Please, tell my wife I love her, tell my sister I love her, tell my son I love him…” his voice begins to trail off but he fights to finish his sentence, “…and take this.” He hands me a steel flip lighter.

My heart beating out of my chest, I am once again in my bedroom. At the foot of my bed a dark figure stands, staring in my direction.

“D-Daniel, it's me.” A familiar female voice calls out to me. “Are you alright?”

“Clara?” I ask in response. “How did you get in here?”

“The door was unlocked, you never leave the door unlocked. I was worried so I came in, I heard you screaming, were you having a nightmare?”

“Yes… I’m fine now though.”

“That’s good. I know you have those terrible nightmares all the time. With the door being unlocked I was worried someone broke in.” She explains. “Anyway, I came over to give you this…” Her voice gets quiet and she extends her hand to me to reveal a steel lighter. I excitedly snatch it from her hands and hold it to my chest. “…I also wanted to apologize for what happened tonight, I really didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, I should be the one to apologize,” I say with a deep sigh, “I haven’t been able to relax since I left the army, not after what happened. You were right with what you said.”

“I know you still feel guilty, but you have to move on. You can’t allow his death to keep you weighed down.”

“Don’t you hate me?” I ask, my head not facing her but rather making eye contact with the rug. “He was your brother.”

“I don’t hate you, and he didn’t either. He gave you that lighter after all, Mom bought him that before he left for Europe.” She says this and then sits next to me on the bed. “There’s another party tomorrow night, will you come dance with me?”

“Yes,” I reply, “let’s go dancing.”