Flash in Your Mind

CW: Mentions of suicide and war.

*~*~*

The knife handle is cold under your fingers as you grip it as tightly as you can. Your armor, your jeogoli, and your quiver of arrows lie on the ground. With it off, your bare chest is exposed. Scars run along your skin, each one marking where the kullimjas and siches attacked you.

There are too many scars. There are too many times you got hurt during battle.

At least, that is what you believe.

I can’t do this anymore, you think. I have too much pain and shame that I can’t go back. I won’t go back.

You wonder what your sisters will think of this. Jageun’s small frame, Dalla’s curly black hair, and Salang’s wood-like dark brown eyes flash in your mind.

There is no way they would let you do this. But it is the right thing to do. You are sure of it.

But what if…, one side of you pesters. You push it out of your head before it can elaborate. There is no turning back. There is no turning back.

The knife gleams in the rising sun, and you see your reflection in it. Your chocolate-brown eyes are wild, and your black hair is choppy and uneven. The cut on your cheek is red and bleeding, looking like a lopsided nieun.

Ten seconds, you remember. It takes ten seconds for this blade to kill. There is no turning back once it stabs me.

Now is your last chance. And you toss it aside.

You plunge the knife into your chest, almost relishing how it pierced you and made you burn. You fall to the ground, and the thud as your back hits the mud shocks you momentarily. 

Your last glimpse of the world is of the swirls of pink and orange sky. Then everything goes black.

Ten.

Your years as a child flash in your mind. When you were a little boy, you thought of war as a fictional event that only existed in stories. You thought of it as an event that only happened in scrawling letters on dusty-smelling scrolls.

When you were a little boy, you would eagerly read war stories. One of your earliest—and happiest—memories are of the times you would sit on the wooden floor and read the tales of war with your siblings.

You and your siblings would always ask your mother, “Where’s daddy?” 

Your father was rarely at home; you barely know him.

“Away,” she would quickly respond. She wouldn’t elaborate.

You and your siblings never knew that your father was in a real war until after he died.

Nine.

The war stories flash in your mind. In them, the “good” side will always win. The few deaths are honored and remembered. The “bad” side will either get killed off or propose a peace treaty.

The deaths are few and in glory.

The injuries all vanish after the war ends.

There is no aftermath; everything ends happily ever after.

The “bad” side loses the war in a short amount of time.

There is no trauma and almost no pain.

And that is what your childish and foolish mind thought is a real war.

Eight.

Your hands flash in your mind. Your hands have many callouses from holding a bow for hours, shooting kulimjas and siches. The blood of you, your dead comrades, and your friends cover your knuckles and the lines in your palms.

Your hands alone can tell the story of a real war. A war hurts. And it kills.

Seven.

Your home’s wooden doors flash in your mind. Your sisters are undoubtedly waiting behind those doors. They are waiting for you to run inside, hug and kiss them, and tell them the three golden words: “I love you.” It keeps them going. And, as much as you don’t want to admit it, it keeps you going, too.

What will they think when they find your body on the ground?

You picture Jageun crying, her usual quiet voice rising higher and higher in pain. You picture Dalla curled up in a ball, clutching her stomach. You imagine Salang not moving, staring at your body in shock.

Second guesses build inside of you, but it is too late. You made your choice; the knife is in. There is no going back.

Six.

What you wait for flashes in your mind. Every day, you wait for sunrise, which is when the kulimjas and siches retreat. You and your comrades can rest until dusk. Every dawn, you would see your allies’ bodies vanish with the kullimjas and siches.

The worst part about watching is that you know they will be back tomorrow as the siches.

In your mind, the war is hopeless. Every single one of your deaths will result in one more enemy to worry about the next day. In your mind, that is the reason this war has been going on for a thousand years. In your mind, there is no hope left.

It is useless to wait for the little pleasures like the sunrise.

Five.

The kullimjas and siches flash in your mind. Day after day, the kullimjas rob you, and the siches curse you. It is a never-ending cycle. You don’t know how long you can continue to live.

The pain from the knife courses through your body like a fire does to wood. You are vaguely aware of the blood trickling from the wound. 

Not very long, you think grimly.

Four.

What happened today flashes in your mind. Today, the kullimjas took away something, and the siches cursed you with something. Something. What is this something? You didn’t know. You still don’t know.

Whatever they took and cursed you with, you fell and stayed down for the entire battle. The kullimjas would’ve taken away your life—and you would’ve thanked them—but your allies came to your rescue. You saw the pity in their eyes as they did so. You didn’t want it; you don’t want it.

You were the mighty and strong warrior, the feared archer, and respected soldier. But you fell under a shadow and a dead man. You are falling at the hands of yourself and your knife.

Three.

Your weapons flash in your mind. Your bow is gone, lost in the battle. Your quiver holds four arrows, but they are incomplete and useless; arrows and a bow together are one whole. Apart, they are next to nothing. 

Two.

Your knife—the one in your chest—flashes in your mind. It has four different kinds of wood on the handle. Four scratches are on it, cutting through the outside of the wood. Four is an unlucky number.

The knife's handle has four kinds of wood ginkgo, oak, nutmeg, and eucalyptus. G, O, N, E.

It spells “gone.”

Your father gave you this knife, naming the specific types of wood. He looked you in the eye and told you to put it to good use.

You wonder: Is this a good use?

One.

People’s last words flash in your mind.

"Goodbye. Rest, at last," your grandfather muttered, sighing his last breath.

"I love you. I’ll see you soon," your father whispered in you and your siblings’ ear before going outside to “work.”

"I love every single one of you with all my heart." Your mother kissed you and your sister’s heads before going to sleep.

"Whatever you do, don’t be the one to kill me tomorrow when I’m a siche," your friend mumbled as she died on the battlefield.

"Take care of the girls for me." Your brother ruffled your hair one last time.

You add your own last words to the chorus in your mind. You choke out these words: The warrior has fallen, but his house still stands.

Jageun still stands. So do Dalla, Salang, your grandmother, and your friends and comrades from battle.

Zero.

*~*~*

This story is for you, reader. No matter how big or how small, no matter how internal or external, no matter how long or short, no matter how painful or peaceful, you are presumably in a war. And this story is for you because I want you to stay strong during it.