6 Chapter no.6 Why, Me?!

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Maria and William's laughter bubbled in the air, their joy undiminished by the bags they carried from their mall outing. A special day, marked by the simple pleasure of spending time together, away from the shadows that often lingered around the corners of their family life.

"Mommy, who is the cake for?" William's voice was tinged with curiosity and the anticipation of a sweet treat, his small hand gripping Maria's firmly.

Maria smiled down at him, playing along with his innocence. "Hmm, let's think. Who do you think deserves a big, delicious cake today?"

William tapped his chin theatrically, a gesture he'd picked up from his father. "Daddy? 'Cause he's home and doesn't need to go away again?"

"That's right!" she beamed at him. "And what kind should we give him?"

"Chocolate! It's the best, just like Daddy!" William's eyes sparkled with excitement, reflecting a wisdom and understanding far beyond his years, of the sacrifices made and the reunions cherished.

As they ambled on, their world was full of the mundane beauty of a day out – the rustling of shopping bags, the distant hum of traffic, and the warmth of the setting sun on their backs. The cadence of their steps and the rhythm of their chatter were the melodies of an ordinary life, one that Maria had longed for them to return to.

But the ordinary shattered in an instant.

The screech of tires clawed through the calm, an ugly, discordant note that brought reality crashing down around them. Maria's head whipped around, her eyes widening as the world slowed, the image of an oncoming truck burning into her retinas. Instinct took over; her body moved with a mother's protective grace, wrapping William in a cocoon of love and determination.

The world became a cacophony of noise – the scream of metal on asphalt, the shattering of glass, and the thud of impact mingled with the cries of her child. Above all, Maria's thoughts screamed a silent prayer, willing her body to be the shield that William needed.

Time fractured, splintered by the sounds of a nightmare unfolding in the middle of a dream. There were voices, distant and muffled, as if underwater.

"Call 911!" someone shouted, a bystander witnessing the fragile thread of life being violently tugged.

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The fluorescent lights of the military office flickered with a sterile hum, a stark contrast to the chaos that had been John's world outside these walls. He stood rigid, the epitome of a soldier, before his commanding officer, a man whose face was etched with lines of duty and the heavy burden of command.

The silence was a gaping chasm before the officer's words tumbled into it, each syllable a weight that threatened to crush the room.

"We've got some bad news for you."

The words hung there, suspended and sharp. John's gaze didn't waver, his body a statue, but behind the soldier's façade, his heart began an ominous drumming. News from home—this was not protocol unless...

"Your wife and son..." The officer's voice trailed, an unwelcome tremor breaking through. He cleared his throat, professionalism masking the crack of emotion. "They died while you were away on your last mission."

Air. He needed air. John's lungs searched for breath that seemed lost, his world narrowing down to those words, an echo chamber of the unthinkable.

"They were on their way to the market. A truck... malfunctioning brakes... it hit them, killing them instantaneously."

The officer's words blurred into the background as John's vision tunneled, focusing on a memory – a day, not unlike others, when he had hugged them goodbye, felt the press of their bodies against his, and promised to return. Promises now turned to dust.

"The driver was sentenced to probation." There was a bitter edge to the officer's tone, the law's cold hand delivering a verdict that mocked the gravity of loss. "There was room for extenuating circumstances despite his negligence."

John's fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. A rage, foreign and consuming, bubbled beneath his skin, a torrent of helplessness, guilt, and a burgeoning darkness that coiled within him. The military had been his life, his identity, but in this merciless moment, it was a hollow shell to the gaping void left by Maria and William.

In the ensuing silence, John felt a shift within the very foundation of his being. Something primal and untamed stirred, a beast awakened by the unbearable pain of loss. The room, the officer, the uniform – they all receded into a foggy distance. All that remained was the visceral pulse of a life-altering crossroads.

From that moment on, as the officer continued with formalities and condolences, John was acutely aware of the transformation unfurling inside him. The soldier was still there, but the man was unmoored, drifting into uncharted waters where the only compass was a grief so profound it threatened to submerge him.

From that moment on, something inside me began to change.

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John's home was silent, the kind of silence that claws at the edges of the mind. It was no longer a haven but a mausoleum to memories he could no longer hold. In his hand, a family portrait—their smiles a stark contrast to his anguish. The frame felt like holding a piece of the sun, radiantly warm, but it scorched him, burned him to his very soul.

As he gazed through blurred vision, a figure emerged from the shadows of the room. Kito, the specter of his past, stood before him, an apparition born of guilt and torment. The young man's eyes, once filled with admiration, now bore into John with a silent accusation.

"Why?" John's voice was a ragged whisper, trailing off into the emptiness. "Why my family? Why my happiness?"

He rose unsteadily to his feet, the portrait clutched like a lifeline as he confronted the hallucination. "Why my son? Why Maria?"

The words tumbled from him in a rant, his sanity fraying at the edges as he spoke to the ghost of Kito. "I saved you! I tried to be the hero you wanted me to be! And this is how it ends?"

His laughter was brittle, fracturing the eerie stillness, the sound of a man teetering on the brink. "A hero? What hero ends up with nothing—haunted by a boy who became the monster he fought against?"

Kito's silent image didn't falter, didn't fade, a cruel trick of John's tortured psyche.

"You were a child, Kito! You had a choice... and my family—my little boy... They had no choice." John's voice cracked, breaking with the weight of his agony. "They were innocent!"

He collapsed back into the chair, the portrait now a crushing weight in his hands. "Was it you, Kito? Did you take them from me? This hellish path we've walked... It's consumed everything. I can't—"

A sob tore through him, raw and merciless. John's mind, once a fortress, now crumbled under the siege of his grief. The foundations of his reality shifted, and he could no longer tell where the battlefield ended and home began.

"Why my family?" he repeated into the void, a litany for the damned. "Why my wife?"

He looked at the man who took them away, the driver—a mere blur in a photograph tacked on the wall by the police report. "You... How can you live knowing what you've done? How can I?"

The lines between justice and vengeance, sanity and madness, blurred. His home felt alien, the air thick with the presence of ghosts. John's grip on reality slipped, his mind a maelstrom of despair and anger. He sat there, a shadow among shadows, the echoes of his life before the war, before the losses, mocking him with their vibrancy. His family's laughter, once the sweetest symphony, now resounded like a dirge in his ears.

"Why .... Me?!"