Slapped In the Face

His job was to deliver water to the horses. He walked to the well, filled the bucket, then brought it back to the stables, only a couple yards from the battlegrounds. Occasionally, he heard yells of men prepared for war, or the distant slicing of swords trained for warfare, but he would blink and turn away. That’s always what everyone told him to do. Blink. Turn away. That’s what he did when his sister got too close to the cliff edge. And fell. Ninety feet down. You would think he’d be sad. But he wasn’t. Because three days earlier, his sister slapped him straight across the face. Her fat, old hand came into contact with his small pink cheek and knocked him right over.

He was still young, so he barely knew what was happening. Other than people were fighting. Why were they fighting again? He didn’t know. Maybe one had slapped another in the face, and they really wanted revenge. Hopefully they did get revenge, for he wanted nothing more than to slap his sister back. But alas, she was at least four feet taller than him. And also dead.

He wasn’t that young, but he sure looked like it. He looked maybe six, though he was nine and a half. Don’t forget the half. The only reason he got this job was because his arms were strong, and he didn’t have any family left. His parents had gotten disease, and died in a snap. He survived, but his sister fell off a cliff, as previously mentioned. So he was found a couple days later, searching the cupboards for non-existent food, and they took him to an orphanage. He met a lovely little girl there. She was kind and cute. Her name, Abigail. They held hands and shared bread. Until the day the soldiers came round and took all the boys that seemed healthy and ready to work. Of course, he was far too young to work for the militia, but people do strange things when they are desperate, especially when it comes to war. He was separated from the little girl, but he vows every day, he shall grow big and strong, and he will go find her, and she will love him and claim him as her hero. He smiles at the thought.

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So here he was, lonely, but not afraid. He slept every night in the small shack near the stable, on top of a few piles of hay, and eats every morning a chunk of bread. There were no other kids here, except for one which he forgot the name of, who preferred to sleep with the horses, and was always trying to get the soldier’s attention.

The other boy would walk up to them and say, “I am loyal, I will fight. Let me fight with them.”

He thought this was ridiculous. Who would risk their own lives to prove their worth? Would he?

So he trudged on with his day, slowly falling asleep. The little shack had no roof, which he was somewhat grateful for, because he got to stare off at the stars every night before he drifted to sleep. 

“That one,” he pointed at night, “is sister Jane. And that one,” his small finger practically touched the sky, “is mother. And there’s father. And there’s Abi. Wow, she’s still here, watching me. Hi Abi. I know you are not dead, but I still see you in the stars,” He would yawn and stare, not feeling as lonely anymore.

When he awoke, he did what he always did. He grabbed the bucket from the stable, walked to the well, filled the bucket with water, took a sip, then brought it to the stables, and filled the horses’ water. Same routine. Every morning.

He touched one of the horse’s head and slowly petted along its nose. He smiled, but stopped when a soldier barged in, followed by another, and another, and more. They ran through the stables, opening the gates, grabbing horses, and running out. They screamed and almost ran over him. He moved out of the way quickly, but that didn’t stop them from hitting him in the leg. He groaned and sat in the corner, but they clearly didn’t notice.

“War!” They yelled, “move, move!” They hopped on the horses and galloped into the distance.

He didn’t understand what the rush was. How hard had the enemy slapped their face? It had to be quite hard for them to be acting like this.

As soon as the soldiers filed out, he ran after them. What else was he to do, nothing? So he ran, and ran. Until he officially crossed the border of his country and found the battleground. Two sides, watching and waiting. Formal war. One red, one green. They both looked angry. He didn’t know which side he was supposed to be rooting for, but he backed off behind a tall rock, and watched. 

The only thing he remembered from the next couple seconds was screams, blood, and hatred. They ran at each other, stabbing each other with their freshly sharpened sword, doing anything they could to win. He wanted to run and yell, “stop!” but he knew they wouldn’t listen. 

So he watched. He cringed. He cried.

A blood-stained piece of fabric landed just a couple feet away from him, so he ran as fast as he could, grabbed it, and held onto it like it was Abigail.

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They still call it a magnificent historic event, but he doesn’t call it that. He calls it murder. His side wasn’t the good side. They were the ones who slapped the others in the face. And yet they won. Just like his sister did. He never saw Abigail again. And he never would. Her funeral was held on the other side of the world, and he couldn’t bear to go. They come every day to interview him, asking him what it was like to experience such a thing when he was only a child, but even he isn’t able to answer that. But in the back of his mind, he knows the answer. What was it like?

It was almost like… like- like being slapped in the face.