Sometimes my work is tedious, boring. Seemingly inconsequential. Until I get that one sighting. Notice something others shouldn’t. Rebels coming upon a shipped container of vaccines. Whether they plan to steal or destroy remains to be seen.
I don’t give them a chance, however.
“Overwatch to Base, come in,” I call into the CB mic sitting alongside me.
“Overwatch, this is Base. Go ahead,” the base commander reports back.
Static crackles the line as I answer. “Two trucks with eight heat sources coming your way hot and heavy.”
“How long?” The man never screws around.
“Ten minutes max. Not looking heavily armed. Watch your six.”
“Roger that, Overwatch.”
Like I said, seemingly inconsequential. But that two-minute call is about to save dozens of lives. Fascinated, I watch through my satellite feed as both vehicles stop and begin shooting. Snipers from the base have them taken out before they can even approach the premises, and I know by morning, the vaccines and other supplies will be gone. Hidden from further attack like they were never there.
“Got it covered, Overwatch,” crackles through the line again, full of triumph.
“Nice work, Base.”
The rest of my night is quiet, and I find myself thinking of North. If he or she is stuck in that shithole center over the long weekend or not.
I don’t know what it is, but I feel like we’ve connected in some way. Even though we’ve only exchanged a couple of letters, they’ve been deeply personal in many ways.
“Hey, Des!” the base mail carrier calls out. “Got a letter!” He tosses it on my desk and walks away, hollering more names as he goes.
It doesn’t take me long to rip open the envelope, knowing who it’s from.
Dear Des,
I looked up your Christmas Island; it looks tight. Misleading as hell but cool. How long are your tours typically? I tried to look it up online, but the answer varied, which makes sense but also kind of sucks.
What I like to do? Well, I enjoy painting. Oil, watercolor, pastels. I recently tried out hot wax as a paint, and it came out interesting enough. I’d like to explore it a bit more, I think.
Don’t you have family at home missing you? Girlfriend? Kids? Friends? How do you handle it? I know the movies and TV say all this military stuff—you grow bonds, your comrades become your brothers and sisters. But it must get lonely.
It sounds like it does.
I’ve always been a loner, but I like being around people. Whether it’s watching or sometimes interacting doesn’t matter too much. It’s the noise I like. The movement.
I used to sit in the food court at the mall while doing homework and catching up on overdue assignments and observe for hours. Not one person was ever the same.
Being here? Locked up like some common criminal? It’s horrible. I can honestly say, for the first time ever, I think I hate my dad.
I hate him for pushing my mom away.
I hate him for treating me like a burden.
I hate him for never seeing me as more than some little girl with pigtails.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
Except…
I don’t.
I should. And he would deserve it. I don’t deserve to be here. I’m not some irresponsible, spoiled little girl looking to make my way in life off of Daddy’s dime. I have goals and dreams, and he ruined them.
I should hate him.
I wish I could.
Sorry for being melodramatic. It’s been a dreadful day. I didn’t go home for Thanksgiving. I hadn’t planned to but then changed my mind at the last minute and called him. I asked if I could.
He refused. Told me I was an embarrassment to his name. That I’d ruined his legacy. I didn’t deserve to come home when I was so troubled.
I should hate him, Desmond…
So why can’t I?
……
North
Fuck. She’s breaking my heart. I can practically feel her pain washing off the pages with each word I read. Her heartbreak is magnified, showcasing her feelings of unwant and rejection by her father.
I’d like to punch the dickhead in the face at the moment. Making her feel anything less than cherished is unacceptable. He doesn’t deserve her.
Crumpling the envelope that North’s letter came in, I stop when I feel a slight resistance. Opening it, I see a small square of photo paper. Words on the back read: this is me, real, raw, unrelenting.
I flip it over, and it’s a punch to gut. Dark hair falls to one side of a perfectly round face with plump, full lips. Her eyes are a perfect almond shape projecting a rich green hue. And sadness. I can see her tears clear as day in the photo. She looks like someone kicked her puppy down the drain.
The most shocking revelation is the immediate attraction I feel towards her. To her words. Now I understand why I’ve been feeling so connected to her.
She’s meant to be mine.