Make My Grave Shallow

It had to start raining right as you stepped out of your car door. And it wasn’t just sprinkling. It was pouring. The harsh droplets of water splattered all over your clothes as you bit down a sigh and crossed the street. A car swerved around you with a loud honk and screeching tires, but you barely noticed. The watch on your wrist chimed loudly. Late. Just the way it needed to be. They’ll be there now.

The warm lights of the town bar illuminated the dark, murky puddles that lined the streets, and you quickly jumped on the sidewalk and yanked the door open. Immediately, a wave of warmth washed over your body as you wiped down your face of any dripping rain water. Laughter floated through the air, and the clinking of mugs reached your ears.

  You blinked wearily, searching for your client.

  Or a friend, or an enemy, you suppose.

  You flicked your eyes over the entire pub, taking in the sights of drunk men falling over and collapsing onto each other. With a quick breath, you realized that you recognized some of these men. But they weren’t who you were looking for. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, glad you had at least dyed your hair. It was no longer a simple almond brown, but a dark ebony color. The last thing you needed was for someone to recognize you and faint out of pure shock. 

  “Hey, you looking for someone?” a voice called out to you from one of the tables of the pub. 

  Your eyes turn towards him, and your heart rate quickened. You knew him like the back of your own hand. His stupid voice and his annoying hazel eyes, and his short but unkept almond hair. He knew you too, you two had been inseparable. But now, you were nothing but a stranger. “Oh, um, no… just looking for a drink,” you quickly lied, trying to force a believable smile.

  The man smiled back at you, and for a second, you wished you could tell him who you were. “Aren’t we all. Come on, I’ll buy one for you… got a name?”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s- uh… Peter. Peter Howard,” you choke out, hoping that it was enough to fool him.

  He nods slowly, then gestured to an open seat at his table, and gets up to talk to the bartender. Without much of a choice, you sit down, folding you hands in your lap. This was not good. But you scoff to yourself and decide that one drink wouldn’t hurt. Soon, there’s two mugs filled to the brim placed in front of you, and you nod. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the man said. “I’m Brandon, by the way.”

  He held out his hand, and you firmly took it in your own. “Nice to meet you, Brandon,” you say wryly, a smirk forming on your lips.

  Its strangest meeting you’ve ever experienced before, probably because you met this man three years ago, but not as Peter. “So, what bring you here tonight?” he asked, raising his mug to his lips.

  “Oh, well I'm… I’m just looking for a good night, you know?” you answer quickly.

  He smiled. “Trust me, I know.”

  You stare at him carefully, keeping your personality hidden, trying to be Peter. Your smile, your laugh, your sayings… it all has to be locked away. “What about you, Brandon? What are you doing here?” you ask, because it only seems fair, and you were genuinely curious.

You haven't spoken to him in a year, and this would probably be the last time for a while. The moments were slipping away, the seconds seemingly draining away faster than usual. His eyes seemed to glaze over for a second as he sighed and said his mug down, leaning forward in his chair. He laughed hoarsely and rubbed his neck. "Well, its actually one of my buddy's birthday tomorrow... but, he died about a year ago." His voice was laced with pain, like each word that came out of his mouth was killing him. "I guess this is my way of celebrating him," he chuckled, but there was no joy behind it.

Concern began to bubble up inside of your mind as you watched him closely, but you heard your conscious scream in your head. It felt like fire. But you had to be Peter, and that hurt. It hurt more than a bullet to the shoulder or a knife wound in the gut. All you wanted to do was shake his shoulders and shout, "I'm here, I'm here! It's me!"

But you couldn't, and it broke your heart. Is it worth it? Is this worth it?

"I... I'm sorry, man," you finally manage to choke out.

Brandon waved you away and smiled, obviously braving though the pain. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he lost someone he cared about. "Don't worry about it, mate. He was a good guy, but I know he's happy up there," he reassured, but you were not convinced in the slightest. You knew him too well. Then, you caught him ducking his head and whispering, "Damn you, Bryce... I wish you were still here."

 It was barely audible, but you caught the words that sent shivers running down your spine. Suddenly, it became harder and harder to breath. The lights began to flicker and the jolly atmosphere began to fade in and out. Sounds that were ear blistering a moment ago were now muffled, as if you were underwater. There was a touch at your shoulder, but you barely registered it. You couldn't breath!

“Hey, you alright, mate?"

  You gasped and blinked quickly, the sounds crashing into your ears like a raging sea. Brandon was there, giving you a strange and fearful look. Your throat was dry and you quickly stood up from your seat, swaying bit. He quickly steadied you and you shook your head and stepped away from him. "I-I'm sorry, I just need some fresh air."

He looked at you carefully, as if he was debating wether you were a threat to yourself or not. "Alright..."

Without another second spared, you quickly began to maneuver your way around the rest of the people in the bar. The whole place should have reeked of alcohol, but to you, it suddenly smelled like smoke and gunpowder. There was a loud crash, and you flinched as you watched glass skid under your feet. The glistened under the bright lights of the pub and you fought for air, the sound of the glass too similar to a gut wrenching explosion. Without paying any attention to the annoyed men behind you, you briskly made it to the exit. As you opened the door, the harsh wind slapped your face, and the rain began to pelt your skin. But it at least didn't smell and sound like a war zone.

Someone bumped into your shoulder from behind, and you heard a soft but gruff, "Sorry."

Your eyes widened as you looked up to see a man slightly taller than you, but his facial features were just out of view. But you knew that voice anywhere. Without much thought you quickly grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Of course, there was quick resistance on the other end. "What the- hey, let go, man! What are you doing?" he shouted, clearly furious and confused. Maybe a bit drunk, too.

You knew that only one thing was the same about your appearance, and you had to take your chance. You glared at him darkly, sending a silent message that always meant, Shut up, will you?

Immediately, his own sea green eyes widened in recognition, and you gave a mental sigh of relief. Without waiting for a response, you dragged him to a nearby alley way and let go of his arm. As he massaged his wrist, he stared at you, and you could perfectly picture what he saw: weary grey eyes, soaking wet clothes, and damp and ruffled raven hair. I am not surprised at the outcome of my life, you thought with harsh nihilism.

"You're supposed to be dead," he suddenly snarled, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"Good to see you too, Aaron. I'm surprised you even recognized me... its been what? A year?" you replied wryly.

Aaron's eyes flashed with anger and you took a step back as he marched right into your personal space. You held your hands up, hoping that your best friend wouldn't actually hit you. "You bastard! We thought you were dead!"

A sly smirk found its way onto your lips and you looked him right in the eye. "Well, it obviously didn't stick."

Suddenly, without warning, he grabbed you by the shoulders and slammed you against the wet brick wall of the alley. Shock and pain flared in your shoulder blades. A pathetic squeak escaped your throat as you stared at your outraged comrade. "You idiot! We saw you die on that mission, Bryce! We all saw it!"

His grip tightened around your shoulders, but you quickly pushed him off. "So, do you want me dead or not, because I can leave!"

Your words seemed to stun him, and the two of you stared at each other. The rain filled the silence that seemed to suck the air out of the atmosphere. Finally, Aaron's shoulders dropped in defeat. "Everyday, I heard your screams. Every. Single. Day," he stated wearily, pacing around the alley. "And everyday, I would think about what I could have done differently, to bring you back. But, you're here, after all you put me through... you died, Bryce, and you made me go through it."

Guilt washed over you like a massive tidal wave as you looked at the ground and shook your head. "Aaron, I'm sorry, but I did this for a reason."

"What reason? What kind of reason is so important that it justifies you faking your death with no warning at all and not thinking about how anyone would react to it?" he pressed.

Irritation and anger began to bubble up in your throat, but you swallowed it and tried to keep your tone as calm as possible. "I did think about it, but there was no other way to get my mission done," you carefully explained, hoping this would satisfy him.

He scoffed and gave you a look that made you gulp. "You're kidding right?" he asked, but his voice was dangerously low. Before you could take a step back, he shoved you backwards with a furious scowl. "You think you can come back after I thought you were dead and act as if nothing happened?"

His scream rattled your head as you fought to keep your balance. The puddles underneath your feet splashed and soaked your shoes, and you blinked quickly, the rainwater stinging your eyes. "Aaron, stop."

He didn't stop, but instead gave you another rough shove, and this time, your back slammed against the wall again. Pain rattled your body as your vision blurred for a second. "You bastard... give me one reason I shouldn't knock you out and leave you in this alley way and pretend you did died on the battlefield. Pretend that you died a hero and a friend, pretend that I had done all that I had could have done to save you!" he screamed again and shook you roughly by the shoulders.

You didn't know what to say. His words made you stop and think about what you had done. "Joe is alive," you whispered. Your glassy grey eyes made their way up to his own furious green ones. "Aaron, he's alive, and he needs my help."

The shaking stopped and you let out a quick sigh of relief. Aaron stared at you, then quickly released you from his hold, as if he had touched fire. His steps were shaky has he stumbled backwards, and he slowly shook his head at you. "I recall you lying better than that before you," he waved his hands at you with a cutting glared, "decided to play dead."

You rolled your eyes. "I'm not lying, Aaron. Joe never died, but he was captured and brought behind enemy lines."

Aaron snapped his head up and stared at you. A few seconds of silence ticked by until he let out a huge guffaw and waved his hand at you. The spark of anger seemed to fading from his eyes, but you knew he wasn't done with you yet. "Good one, Bryce. I'm glad to know that your sense of humor didn't die either," he grunted.

"I'm not joking, Aaron," you growled, growing increasingly irritated. "Joe is alive and we've been communicating ever since my death."

"You really expect me to believe that, Bryce?" Aaron growled.

You smiled. "Well, I'm here, aren't I? Aaron, he's alive."

He stared at you carefully, and you stared back, and memories floated in and out of your head. The first time you had met him, the two of you wide eyed recruits.

When you were sent on your first mission, your hands and uniform caked with blood and shaking as countless soldiers shouted in sheer pain and horror, "Medic!"

And the moments before you had "died," when you two stared at each other for a millisecond before pain and flames obstructed your vision.

"And even if Joe is alive what does that have to do with me?" he asked, still in disbelief.

You grinned and fished through your pocket until you supplied him with a surprisingly dry piece of paper. It was neatly folded and you held it out to him, watching as the rain began to stain it before he snatched it out of your hands. "I need you to get that to Barnes," you ordered cooly.

"Corey- I mean- the captain?" Aaron glanced at you, then quickly unfolded the paper, and his eyes widened. "These... these are battle plans," he said as if it was a fragment of his imagination.

You smirked and nodded, "Inside work by Joe. If our guys can take on these last attacks, then the war is over by next month, I guarantee it."

The paper disappeared into his coat pocket and he nodded slowly. After five years of terror, would it really be over? "Well, we're shipping out tomorrow, so you're right on time. I take it this is your cue to get going?" he asked sadly.

You sighed, more conflicted than you let your face show. "Yeah... but Joe wanted me to give you this before I go," you said as you tossed him something from your pocket.

It sailed through the rain, glistening in the moonlight before it landed safely in Aaron's hands. He nestled it in his palm and examined it before whispering, "My watch..."

You laughed, but in you mind, you were screaming and crying as you realized that you would be leaving your world as you knew it behind again. "I'll see you around, Aaron."

"Bryce?" he questioned and you tilted your head at him as he grabbed your own arm and stuffed something in your palm with a grin. "Happy birthday... don't forget to come back. We’ll be waiting for you for as long as it takes."

The two of you locked eyes for the briefest of seconds before Aaron nodded and ran out of the hallway, most likely running to deliver the plans to Corey. You stared at the empty hallway before glancing down at the crumpled paper in your hands. Ignoring the rain, you carefully unfolded it.

When you saw what it was, you were glad that it was raining as I tear slipped down your face, and you chuckled hoarsely. It was a soggy picture of you, Brandon, Aaron, and Joe. The day before your first mission, with your arms locked around each other's shoulders. You carefully tuned the photograph away in your pocket and looked up into the rain, embracing its coolness. "God," you breathed, "I hate you so much, Peter."