Crimson Has Never Been Prettier

Sojar, Soldier

Where I come from, your existence is a crime. A mishap, an accident. You, with your unrivalled power and unbridled magic, are a fantasy to us. You, with hands that can both save a life and take one. A bronze face set perfectly in your round head—the head my people would want to hang, and then marvel in the beauty of it as a corpse. Stay away from me, mija. For I was sent to tie you up in chains, shackle your wrists till they bled, and throw you off a cliff, but I do not feel you deserve such treatment. Stay as far as possible so I can lie about my hesitance. If you come close, it would be betraying my country. Because where I come from, you are a demon, a jemnin, a curse, a drop of impure blood tainting and spreading in the crevices of the ice. When I see you, mija, I see something else. Something like how I can locate the scars on your back even when it is not facing me. Something in how I'm certain I know what it feels like to share a wolfskin pillow with you, how it feels to swim with you to safety. It feels like a distant memory, but it will not come to me.

My Ghost and Your Ghost

I wonder, was the seawater rotting my brain when I dreamt of you every day and every night? In my mind I saw our ghosts, the two of us young, your wrists tied up to chains at the bottom of a prison in a ship, me being the only one from my country giving you water to drink. Was it real, or is this wishful thinking? Was your slight rare smile, the gentle curve of your eyelashes an imagined fantasy? Or had we ever shared any memories my country had stolen and wiped? I want to come close but I should stay away. I wish my order were in compliance with my desires. The mouths of our ghosts have been stitched together with threads of fire made of our patriotism, and we have been trained to hate each other. I have been taught and forced to hate you and your race. I have been ordered not to get too close for you might enchant me with your magic. I have been sent here to drive a knife through your heart and feel no emotion at all. But how can I do that when the mere thought of it makes me want to kill myself first? I don't want to kill you, mija, and I don't know why I call you that. Did you know, mija is my tongue's word for darling? And for some reason, it feels right only when I say it to you. My ghost and your ghost know we aren't meant to hurt each other, but I never know whom to follow. My heart or my heartless orders?

Ugly Woollen Sweater

No one spares a second glance at you—who am I kidding, everyone does. You have no competition as you dance through the crowd, a smile plastered onto your face. In my country, they'd try to tear it away. Millions try to talk to you; everybody wants to buy you a drink. Everyone wants to talk, sing, and dance with you. But they're all wrong. They're not for you. Only I am. Only I'll fit into your empty pizzle of a heart, hidden beneath your suffocating, uncomfortable clothes. I see it, you see. I see how you despise the attention you get, how you wish you could be free without the spotlight, wearing something comfortable, free to be yourself day in and day out. I imagine you in a thick knit sweater of our country's wool. Certainly not my sweater, no. You'd laugh if you heard my mind right now. "So an ugly woollen sweater can you make you swoon, hm?" You'd say, giggling. "You big hunk of stupid meat," you'd say, a basket full of the flowers of your admirers in your hands, "why are you making a young damsel carry this heavy load, huh?" I smile. I frown. I try to wipe your memory off my head. I've gotten too close. I have to stay away. I won't become a traitor.

Frail and Controlled, Couldn't Be You

Where I come from, girls don't fight. They don't argue. They don't talk with every man they consider attractive passing the street. They do their work in silence—knitting, cooking, caring for their family. They're tame, quiet, obedient, and controlled. They don't shout. They don't express much besides the occasional demands for us soldiers to go buy the bread for the households. But you, with your hands and your power that can control the hearts of millions, both literally and figuratively, you, with your bold actions and loud, reckless insults—I don't know why you have been imprinted like a seal in my heart. In fact, I have been told to tear apart yours. Wouldn't that be suicide, now, because all the times I have followed you under the pretence of learning your ways and wanting to spy on you to easily take your life, I've wished I could have spent the entirety of mine with you? Don't come close, please. For if that face got any closer to me than a sharpshooter's range, I must just follow my forbidden desires and betray my beloved country. I wish I never had to make this choice, but I have no other choice. Stay away from me, mija. Please don't make me have to decide so soon.

Comraderie, The Sins of Patriotism

I walk away from you, head bent low, eyes averted from your face. Otherwise, you might make me want to stay. My comrades are waiting for me, awaiting their own assignments. "Have you killed her yet?" Kom will ask, "Do you have a plan or not, you big sojar?" "Tomorrow," I'll say. I want to see your eyes with life in them for as long as I'm allowed. I'm coming for you tomorrow, I really am. Because you're the one, with your bronze skin and horrendous singing voice. You're the one for me, and you're going to be my first kill. Be careful, for we are strangers with memories we can't recall, and only one of us will make it to the very end. Where I come from, we are the hunters and you are the prey, so bow, little mija, and go silently. I'm prepared. I walk out of my hiding, fake smile, fake coat, a knife concealed beneath its sleeves. It's now or never. I have chosen. My country is my salvation, and you are somebody I have been asked and made to forget. 

We're Both Each Other's Enemies

I talk to you. You talk to me. It's the same story you tell everyone, "I'm from the neighbouring country. I love croissants. I love chocolate. I enjoy annoying people by singing in the worst voice possible." But of all the things you said, "you look good," somehow slipped in there too. My heart must have stopped. Are you sure you didn't do that with your heart-controller powers? We walk into a huge living suite. We sit down next to each other. And then, when I turn around to hand you a flower, a compliment, a click of metal sounds behind me. Before I can turn around and seize it from you, a shot rings out. Blood spills from my pale lips. My stomach has a hole in it now, and the crimson blots around my fur skin coat. Blood has never been prettier than being called on by you. My blood vessels drain out, leaking out of my eyes. I don't even know why I was surprised. I can't believe I had forgotten that we both are enemies to each other and that where you come from, we are the monsters, and you're much better at loving your country than I ever could be. "Monster," I hear you snarl before my eyes slide shut, "Your kind killed Mona. And you'd think I'd mingle with one like you."

Dreaming of Us

The glass vial I stole from Jordie shatters in my pocket. The gas is red, I know, but the crimson of our blood is prettier. I remember. The two of us called each other demons as we saved our lives swimming from that ice lake. Sleeping on a wolfskin pillow. You were tied to the bottom of my country's ship prison. I saved you, the blood on your wrists dripping onto your forearms. But we loved our countries too much, for they tore us apart. Do you remember too, Layla, as I do? I've always loved you. And by the time we realise it, one of us is gone. Only one of us made it to the end, after all. My life ceases with the colour of your lips on my skin, I'm dreaming of us, and I know, crimson has never been prettier.