In Which We Stand Side By Side and Watch It All Burn (Part Two)
by Holly Rose Scott
[this is a four part series–
read In Which We Stand Side By Side and Watch It All Burn from the beginning]
Part Two
That’s not how it begins, of course, but beginnings aren’t everything.
They converge, a watershed of minor tributaries linking a thousand rivulets into the same ocean. The sniper drops out of Yale after just one year, joins up, doggedly works his way through training, boards the troop ship, shoots some people, kills some people—myriad comings and goings perfectly orchestrated, until one day he realises that he no longer feels bad about taking a life.
It scares him.
It doesn’t seem to matter: he has simply skated along, following a groove already made for him.
The sniper crouches low, peering through his scope into the twilight haze that stretches over the empty valley. The air is thick and cold, the kind that clings to skin like a bad memory. His gloved fingers hover over the trigger, though no targets are in sight. The silence hums, filled only by the distant rustle of the trees and the faint creak of his rifle.
Behind him, the sergeant stands, arms folded, watching.
“Anything out there?” the sergeant asks quietly, breaking the stillness.
The sniper lowers the rifle just a fraction, his eye never leaving the scope. “Nothing. Not yet.”
There’s a long silence before he speaks again. “Can I tell you something?”
The sergeant nods, stepping closer. “Go on.”
The sniper’s voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t feel it anymore.”
The sergeant’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head. “Feel what?”
A bitter, tight smile tugs at the sniper’s mouth. “The weight. The guilt. That… pinch in the gut you get after taking a life.” He pauses, as if considering his next words. “It’s gone. Completely. I could pull the trigger a thousand times, and I don’t think it would change a thing.”
The sergeant studies him, saying nothing. The sniper feels his gaze, heavy, like a stone pressing into his back. “Doesn’t that bother you?” the sergeant asks finally.
“That’s what scares me.” The sniper’s voice is low, almost inaudible. “It used to haunt me. Those faces. Those last moments. The look in their eyes. Now, they’re all just… shadows. Like dreams I can’t remember. I can picture myself taking another shot, and it’s like watching someone else do it.”
A chill seems to settle between them, deeper than the evening air. The sergeant shifts, but the sniper doesn’t move. His finger brushes the trigger, absent-minded, like it’s a reflex he can’t shake.
“War can do that to you,” the sergeant says softly, though he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.
The sniper shakes his head. “No, it’s more than that.” He lifts his gaze, finally meeting the sergeant’s eyes, and there’s something hollow there, something beyond the pale of exhaustion or numbness. “It’s like… I’m turning into the weapon itself. I think I’d do it even if there wasn’t an order. Just to see the way they fall, like it’s some kind of twisted rhythm I can’t get out of my head.”
The sergeant’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he almost takes a step back. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.
The sniper looks back into his scope, a faint, unsettling calm overtaking him. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep doing my job. I’ll follow orders. But you should know…” His voice trails off, low and distant. “I’m not doing it for the same reasons anymore.”
The sergeant doesn’t respond. He only turns, walking back into the fog, leaving the sniper alone, as silent as the dead earth beneath him.
It’s years later, time beyond measure, when the sniper comes up for air again.
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