8 Chapter no.8 Life

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The morning light caressed the rows of headstones in the quiet cemetery, casting long, solemn shadows on the dew-covered grass. John stood there, a solitary figure before the twin graves that held his wife and child. The air was cool, carrying with it the scent of earth and the subtle whisper of the waking day.

The world was moving on, indifferent to the man whose life seemed to have paused in its relentless march forward. John's gaze upon the graves was steady, but his eyes were devoid of tears. They had long since dried up, leaving behind only the stark barrenness of grief that refused to be expressed in such a simple, human way.

"When I was a child... I saw my grandfather slowly pass away," John recalled, the memory surfacing like a shard of glass from the depths of his tortured mind. "In his eyes were sadness, fear, and a sense of futility. Before long, he took his last breath."

The recollection was vivid, a stark moment of realization from his youth. "It was a peculiar feeling. The person who had been my grandfather... was no more." He remembered staring at the still form of his grandfather, the finality of death imprinting itself upon his young mind.

"From that moment on, my grandfather no longer existed. I think that's when I first got a peek into the true nature of life," John mused silently, a hollow feeling expanding within his chest.

And the world, he thought. The world was a continuous cycle of life and death, of joy and suffering, of presence and absence. He stood there, contemplating the graves of his wife and child, feeling that same peculiar feeling he felt as a child—only magnified a thousand times over by the intimate, crushing loss.

The gravestones, with their etched names and dates, marked the existence of two people he had loved more than life itself. Their absence was a chasm in his world, a gap that could never be filled. Yet, John knew the world didn't pause for his loss; it didn't even stumble.

He should have been the one beneath the ground, not them. He had faced death countless times, had danced with it on distant battlefields, yet here he was, and they were the ones claimed by it.

No tears came, no sobs wracked his body. He just stood there, his heart encased in a leaden shell of numbness. It seemed to John that he was beyond the reach of tears, beyond the healing that sorrow could sometimes bring.

"I think that's when I first got a peek into the true nature of life... and the world," John whispered to the wind, though there was no one to hear him. The quiet acknowledgment of the cruelty and randomness of existence was a heavy weight, but it was one he would carry alone, as he turned away from the graves and faced the dawning day.

...

The army base in Mexico was alive with the low thrum of activity and the constant shuffle of boots on dirt. Soldiers moved in groups, their voices merging into a tapestry of chatter and commands. But amidst the day's routine, a ripple of conversation about one particular man passed from one group to the next.

"He's always been incredible, but lately..." a young private muttered to his comrade, casting a glance over his shoulder as if the very subject of their conversation might be looming behind him.

"...he doesn't seem human," finished the other, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and a hint of fear. They were talking about John, a man who had become something of a legend on the base, especially after the recent skirmish at the border.

"Thank God he's an ally. When I imagine meeting him as an enemy..." The first soldier shivered at the thought.

Their conversation was cut short as a sergeant approached, overhearing the tail end of their dialogue. "It's not just his combat capability that's different," the sergeant chimed in, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "Doesn't his mental state seem a little precarious?"

The soldiers nodded, the shared understanding between them clear. It was no secret that John had been through a personal hell, and the aftermath seemed to have forged him into a weapon with nothing left to lose.

The sergeant walked away, leaving the soldiers to their work, but the topic of John wasn't finished for the day. Across the yard, beneath the scant shade of a weathered tent, Dalton, pondered over the same issue.

"It's probably because of what happened..." He didn't need to finish the sentence for his old friend and fellow officer to nod in solemn agreement.

Dalton pushed himself up from the makeshift table strewn with maps and reports. He wiped his brow, the Mexican heat unforgiving even to those who had endured it for years. There was a resolve in his step as he made his way across the base to find John.

.....

On the desolate crest of a rocky outpost, Dalton approached the solitary figure of John, who stood like a sentinel against the horizon. The land stretched out before them, a patchwork of shadow and light as dusk approached.

"How are you lately?" Dalton's voice carried clearly in the crisp air, cutting through the quiet.

John didn't turn, his gaze fixed on the vast landscape. "What do you mean?" he asked, the words steady but distant.

"You've been through a lot so maybe it would be better if you took a little break," Dalton suggested, his eyes narrowed with concern as he stepped closer. "Everyone's concerned."

"Oh, don't worry," John replied finally turning to meet Dalton's eyes. "I passed the mental health evaluation. I'm better than fine."

Dalton gave a nod, though his doubt hung unspoken between them. "Hmm, well, if you say so. Just don't push yourself too hard," he cautioned. "You're the only member of this team who's still with us."

The words seemed to hang heavy in the air. John's gaze drifted back to the horizon, his face unreadable.

"Dalton, do you have a reason for living?" John asked abruptly, the question seeming to come from somewhere deep within him.

"Me? Well, I'm just living, I guess. No special reason," Dalton replied, taken aback by the intensity behind John's inquiry.

"Anyway, are you on guard duty? What are you doing here?" Dalton tried to steer the conversation to safer waters.

"I've been watching a lamb," John said, gesturing to a point in the distance.

"A lamb? Where?" Dalton squinted, following John's line of sight.

"It's at one o'clock, behind the bramble," John directed. His voice held a note of something Dalton couldn't quite place—was it empathy or detachment?

"Oh, I see it!" Dalton's voice softened as he spotted the small, injured creature. "It looks like its back leg was bitten."

"Yeah, a wolf got to it when it was attacking a flock of sheep. It managed to stay alive," John explained, the parallel in his words more than evident.

"Uh-huh. It managed to escape when a ram that appeared to be its protector tried to fight the wolf off. In the end, the wolf got to fill its belly with the ram," Dalton murmured, his tone laced with sadness for the ram's sacrifice and the lamb's plight.

"I'm gonna stay and watch its last moment before I head back down," John declared, his eyes not leaving the lamb, a solemn vigil.

"Hmm," Dalton exhaled, the situation weighing heavily on him. "All right. I feel too sorry for it to keep watching. You stay and say your goodbyes."

John nodded, accepting this quiet task as his own, while Dalton turned to leave, his steps slow, each one heavy with the weight of the unspoken thoughts that lingered in the air. As he walked away, the lookout seemed to shrink back into isolation, the silhouette of a man and the distant figure of a lamb intertwined in the impending shadow of night.