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Andrew shook his head.
Moyer grasped Fisher's elbow and guided him into the hut
while Mitchell eased himself to the ground. He leaned against
the wall and exhaled a deep breath.
Andrew's senses were keenly alive. He noticed
everything Mitchell's body so deliciously close, Moyer's voice
murmuring inside the hut, the prisoners who paraded by with
exaggerated slowness, buzzing flies, and sweat sliding over
his skin. This moment would last only as long as it took Moyer
to utter his prayers. Then they would depart, leaving him with
an intense sense of loss. He wanted to fully experience the
moment, every attribute of this coming together. It was the
moment's mortality that made him so desperate to savor it.
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by Alan Chin
They smiled at each other.
Mitchell seized Andrew's hand in his, holding it with a
gentle pressure. He curved his arm around Andrew's
shoulders and pulled him nearer. He stared out at nothing
with a look that showed poignant emotions churning within,
either joy or sadness or both. Andrew couldn't tell which, but
the intensity of it was terrifying. He felt the officer's heart
thumping.
He let Mitchell have his silence while the officer visibly
struggled with a puzzle, trying to fit the pieces together. He
made himself wait until enough pieces fell into place.
"I saw Cocoa this morning," Mitchell said. "I swear, every
time I see that stump I go crazy thinking how close I came. I
don't know how to thank you."
"You'd do the same for me."
"You nursed me, smuggled me drugs and cleaned my
diarrhea. I wish I could repay you."
"All that was easy. Easy as falling in love. I can't explain
how, but caring for you has made me happier than I've ever
been."
Mitchell edged even closer. Their bodies pressed together
until their faces touched. Andrew tried to pull away, but
Mitchell's eyes stopped him. They kissed. Andrew focused his
entire being on those lips. He ceased to exist, becoming
nothing more than the glorious feeling of the kiss.
When they pulled apart, Mitchell had a sad grin. Andrew
tried to say that he loved him, but before he could, Mitchell
covered his mouth with his fingertips. He's right, Andrew
thought. Words will only diminish this passion.
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The Lonely War
by Alan Chin
They passed through several minutes of living silence.
Inside Hut 29, voices gathered in song.
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a
wretch like me..." Moyer's voice carried the others and gave
each note its full measure.
Andrew pulled three rice balls, two eggs and a pack of
Kooas from his shoulder bag, passing them to Mitchell, who
quickly hid them in his own bag. Contraband should only be
shared with one's own unit, and supplying the officer's unit,
Mitchell, Fisher and Moyer, with food and smokes would have
landed him in a world of hurt with his own unit. He
remembered something else. He lifted a metal can from his
bag and pressed it into Mitchell's hands.
"I found some talcum powder. I miss that smell on you."
Mitchell took a cigarette from the pack and lit it. He waved
the match out and dropped it in the dust as he exhaled.
"You seem so content," he said.
"Of course, the war is over for us. We follow the rules, and
we're okay."
"Don't you long for home?"
"You're my home."
Mitchell seemed puzzled, but he didn't linger on it.
"Don't you miss the outside world?"
"What's to miss?"
"Strolling down city streets, rare steak dinners in
restaurants, taking your girl to the movies, baseball and beer
on Saturdays, Sunday dinners with the family."
"I've never done any of those things. Most people need all
that outside activity. I do most of my living inside, so it
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by Alan Chin
doesn't much matter what's going on around me. Guess I'm
simple."
"There's a beautiful, exciting world out there.
Remembering it is all that keeps me living from this moment
to the next while we suffer through this hell."
"That outside world kept me silent when I needed to talk
to you, drove me to nearly kill Lieutenant Hurlburt, beat me
senseless and raped me while you watched. Here I can live,
and love, and help people. Here I find moments of genuine
happiness. Out there, I'm a failure. Out there is my shame."
"Happiness? Do you mean cooking for Tottori? Do you
enjoy being with him?"
"I'm happy right now, sitting with you."
"What's he like? What kind of man is he?"
The question hung between them. Andrew fumbled for a
response, but his words caught in his throat, like a sparrow
trapped in a cage. This blockage was not caused by shame.
He no longer felt guilt about Tottori, and he didn't feel he
betrayed one man being with the other. They simply lived in
different worlds. His feelings for both were reconcilable. In [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]