Drama Historical Fiction Suspense

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

The white walls pressed in, a sterile embrace that offered no comfort, only a stark, unwavering presence.

My finger traced the faint, almost invisible seam where two panels met, a ghost against the unyielding surface.

Six feet by eight feet—this was my world.

A bed, a sink, a toilet, a shower—all bolted down, all gleaming, all devoid of personality. No pictures to gaze at, no books to escape into. Just the relentless, unyielding white.

I shuffled towards the mirror, a smooth rectangle of polished steel. It wasn’t glass, I knew that. They wouldn’t give me anything that could break.

It reflected a face back at me, a distorted, warped image that seemed to ripple like water whenever I moved. I stared, really stared, at the man looking back.

The eyes, a startling, vivid blue, held a haunted, faraway look.

A thick scar, a jagged lightning bolt, cut through my left eyebrow, disappearing into a shock of dark, unruly hair.

I reached up, my fingers brushing against my reflection’s brow, feeling the raised ridge of the scar. It was real. I knew that much. But what did it mean? How had it gotten there?

“Who... are you?” I whispered.

The reflection’s lips moved, mimicking my own. “Who are... you?”

I flinched, a jolt of surprise coursing through me. I’d done this before, many times. Asked the question, waited for the familiar, empty silence.

But this time… this time was different.

“I… I don’t know,” I confessed.

A strange sense of relief, cold and unsettling, washed over me.

The reflection tilted its head, a synchronized movement. “No… you don’t.”

I leaned closer. “Do I know you?”

The reflection offered a slow, knowing smile. “More than you think.”

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of my mind. “Who are you? Are you… me?”

The reflection offered a chilling answer. “I’m what’s left.”

What’s left? The words echoed in the small, sterile room, bouncing off the white walls, amplifying my confusion. What was I before? What had been lost?

Days blurred into a seamless, featureless expanse. I marked them by the rhythmic clatter of the food slot opening, the bland, unvarying meals, the distant, muffled voices that never quite solidified into words.

The reflection became my constant companion. We talked for hours, or what felt like hours. I asked questions, desperate for answers, for any scrap of information about the man I used to be.

“Why am I here?” I asked one morning.

“You’re sick,” the reflection answered, its voice a hollow echo of my own.

“Sick? With what?”

“Ghosts.”

The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ghosts. I felt no ghosts. Only emptiness. A profound, aching void where memories should have been.

“What kind of ghosts?” I pressed.

The reflection finally looked up, its blue eyes boring into mine. “The kind that wear uniforms, that scream, that never leave.”

A cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

Uniforms? Screams? The words conjured fleeting, indistinct images: flashes of green, the smell of dust and something metallic, the visceral tremor of explosions.

I recoiled from the mirror, pressing my back against the opposite wall, as far away as I could get in the tiny space.

“I don’t remember,” I whispered.

“No,” the reflection said, its voice softer now, almost empathetic. “You don’t. That’s why you’re here.”

The idea of being a soldier… it didn’t fit. I felt no strength, no discipline, no courage. Only a pervasive sense of fear and bewilderment.

“What’s my name?” I asked one evening. I’d spent hours pacing, trying to conjure a name, a face, anything.

The reflection looked directly into my eyes. “David Allen Xavier.”

I repeated the name. “David Allen Xavier.” It felt foreign, distant, like a stranger’s name.

A flicker of memory. “People called me Dax. My call sign was 'Farm Boy.'”

“Yes, they did,” the reflection confirmed. “And yes… it was.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

The reflection’s face hardened. “The ones you tried to save. The ones you failed.”

A sharp, searing pain lanced through my temples, a sudden, blinding agony that made me cry out.

I clutched my head, collapsing onto the cold floor.

Images, fragmented and violent, assaulted my mind: muzzle flashes, the guttural roar of engines, a deafening crack that vibrated through my bones, the sickening thud of bodies.

I saw faces, contorted in fear and pain, faces I should know, faces that screamed silently.

I heard a voice, my own voice, screaming too, a raw, animalistic sound of pure rage.

When the spasm subsided, leaving me trembling and gasping for breath, I pushed myself up, crawling back to the mirror.

The reflection stared back, its expression unreadable.

“What the hell was that!?” I rasped, tears streaming down my face.

“A memory,” the reflection said simply. “A fragment.”

“I don’t want them,” I pleaded, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I don’t want to remember.”

“You have to,” the reflection insisted. “You can’t heal until you remember.”

I hated the reflection.

Hated its knowing blue eyes, its calm demeanor, its insistence on dredging up the horrors I desperately wanted to keep buried in the deepest recesses of my forgotten mind.

I began to avoid the mirror, turning my back to it, staring at the relentless white walls, willing them to offer me solace, a blank slate. But even with my back turned, I felt its presence, a silent, watchful observer.

One morning, the reflection broke the silence. “They called you a hero.”

I spun around, my eyes wide.

“A… a… a hero!?” The word felt alien, a concept so far removed from the shaking, hollow man I was now.

“You saved them,” the reflection continued. “Or, you tried. You carried them. You fought for them. You bled for them.”

I saw flashes again, but this time they were different.

Not just terror, but a fierce determination.

I saw myself, a younger, stronger version, dragging a fallen comrade through a hail of gunfire, my teeth gritted, my face grim.

I saw myself firing, reloading, moving with a fluid, deadly grace.

I saw flashes of green again, but now they were the green of my own uniform, the uniform of a soldier.

My unit, my family... “The Spartans.”

The name struck me with a jolt, not from some ancient history book, but from the grit and sweat of modern war.

We weren’t from Sparta—none of us were. I sure as hell wasn’t.

I was from Iowa. A small town called Vinton that smelled like cornfields and summer rain.

However, we were just as fierce, just as loyal as the Spartans of history.

“A Spartan,” I murmured, the word feeling oddly familiar on my tongue.

“Yes,” the reflection confirmed, a ghost of pride in its eyes. “A warrior.”

But then the other images returned, the screams, the chaos, the overwhelming sense of failure.

I remembered the feeling of searing heat, the deafening roar, the blinding light that had swallowed everything.

And then… nothing.

“What happened?” I demanded, clutching at my head again, desperate for the answer that eluded me.

The reflection’s expression became grim. “Your unit... gone. You were lucky. Damn lucky those birds showed up when they did, or you’d be a ghost too.”

“My unit—gone!?” The words hit me like a physical blow.

The faces from my nightmare, the ones contorted in pain and fear… they were my brothers and sister.

I felt a wave of nausea, a gut-wrenching realization that brought me to my knees.

“You broke,” the reflection said.

“Broke? How?”

“Your mind shattered. You saw too much. You felt too much. You couldn’t reconcile the hero with the horror of losing everything. Of being the only one left.”

I wrapped my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth.

“So I’m broken.” It wasn’t a question.

“You’re healing,” the reflection corrected. “Slowly. Painfully. But healing.”

The idea of healing, of becoming whole again, felt impossible. I was a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, and the ones I had were warped and twisted.

Days turned into weeks, perhaps months. Time didn’t matter in my sterile world.

The conversations with my reflection became less about identifying myself and more about confronting the fragmented memories that surfaced, unbidden, during my waking hours and in my fitful sleep.

Flashes came, blinding and sudden.

The dust, thick and gritty, coating everything.

The acrid smell of burning rubber and something else, something metallic and sickeningly sweet.

The constant, thrumming fear in my chest.

I saw flashes of them, one after the other:

“The Spartans.” Not ghosts, not yet.

Living, breathing, laughing.

“Tank”, John. Our gunner. Saving to buy land in Montana for after the military. He rarely spoke, but his presence was a mountain. His silence was a comfort. I remember seeing him, just before the mission, meticulously sharpening his knife, his face a mask of focus. He had looked up, caught my eye, and just nodded. A silent promise.

“Banshee”, Sarah. Our radio operator. Growing up with five older brothers made her tough. She fought like a demon, with a fire in her green eyes that could scare the enemy and inspire us. She was small, but moved with a terrifying grace, her rifle spitting death. I saw her clear a room faster than any of us, her voice a guttural scream as she went. A banshee. God, she earned that name. I remember her laugh, too, sharp and bright, and the way she'd take the time to give the local children a piece of the candy she always carried, a jarring contrast to the chaos we lived in.

“Whisper”, Miller. He was our scout, our eyes and ears. Never relaxed. Ever vigilant. He'd say, "I'll relax when we're all home safe." He moved like smoke—silent, saw everything. Could tell you what the enemy had for breakfast by the way the dust settled. He was always quiet, always observing. I remember him pointing out the tripwire, barely visible, his finger a steady line against the shimmering heat haze. If he hadn’t seen it…

“Boomer”, Chen. Our demolitions expert. A prankster, our resident "funny guy", until it was time to blow something up. Then his eyes focused, and he moved with a calm, unnerving precision. He’d hum theme songs from TV shows while he set charges or disarmed IEDs. Gilligan's Island was his "go-to". I remember the rumble in my gut when his charges went off, the earth shaking, a testament to his deadly art. He'd always joke, “If you see me running, try to keep up.”

“Angel”, Ryan. Our medic and "preacher" who always prayed before each mission. He would move into the thickest fire to pull someone out. His hands were steady, even when ours trembled. He’d talk to the wounded, a low, calming voice, while he worked. I remember his face, streaked with dirt and sweat, leaning over a bleeding comrade, his brow furrowed in concentration. He saved lives, over and over. I remember the grenade bouncing towards us, and “Angel”, without hesitation, throwing himself on it.

The fucking new guy—FNG. Our grenadier.

Then there was me, "Farm Boy", Dax. I was their leader. I was the one who was supposed to keep them safe, to make sure they all came home—I failed.

We were a family, forged in fire.

We were “The Spartans.”

Not of legend, but of grit, of sacrifice, of the sheer, bloody will to survive and protect each other.

The fragments grew sharper, more frequent. The last mission. The ambush.

We were deep behind enemy lines, a black op, a snatch-and-grab. It went sideways.

The air exploded around us.

Not just gunfire, but RPGs, mortars.

A hailstorm of metal and fire.

The ground beneath me vibrated with each impact, a sickening tremor that threatened to shake my very bones apart.

The smell of cordite was thick, choking, burning the back of my throat.

I saw “Whisper” go down first, a flash of red on his chest as he tried to call out a position.

His brown eyes, wide and unseeing, staring up at the smoke-filled sky.

The life draining from them, leaving behind only the reflection of a burning world.

I heard “Banshee’s” scream, a raw, primal sound that echoed the horror in my own gut.

She was firing, a steady, furious rhythm, cutting down two hostiles before a burst from a heavy machine gun shredded the wall next to her, splattering her with concrete and dust.

She just kept firing, a defiance that chilled me to the bone, her face a mask of rage and grief.

“Boomer” was trying to disarm an IED that blocked our escape route. His usual humming was more frantic.

He fumbled with the wire cutters, his fingers slick with sweat.

A sudden explosion, too close, lifted him off his feet, twisted him in the air, and slammed him against a wall.

His humming stopped.

His body crumpled, an unnatural angle, and a dark stain spread rapidly across the concrete.

I was behind cover, laying down suppressive fire, my rifle hot against my cheek.

The casings ejected, smoking, hitting the ground with a metallic ping.

I saw “Tank” dragging one of our own—the FNG—whose name I can't remember, towards what little cover remained.

A sniper round caught the new guy in the head, his body jerking violently in John’s grip, a fine mist of red erupting.

Then a sickening crack and a spray of blood from “Tank’s” shoulder.

He roared, a sound of pure anguish and rage, dropping the dead FNG and charging towards the sniper’s position, a one-man wrecking crew.

I heard the frantic, desperate shouts of the enemy as he closed in—then silence.

A brutal, final silence, punctuated only by distant gunfire.

I knew, with a certainty that twisted my gut, that John had taken that sniper with him.

I was alone.

My unit shattered around me, but a primal rage surged through my veins.

The enemy advanced, and I met them with a roar of my own, clutching my rifle.

Every shot was a prayer, a curse, a desperate refusal to yield.

I staggered, dragged, and fought, trying to pull my fallen comrades to what meager cover I could find, firing my weapon, a storm of vengeance.

My vision swam, the world narrowing to the muzzle flashes and the faces of those who had fallen, their silent screams fueling my fury.

I could feel their eyes on me, the enemy closing in, but their presence only strengthened my resolve.

Then, the roar. Not of gunfire—choppers.

The blessed, beautiful sound of rotary blades beating the air.

Extraction.

They had shown up. Just in time.

A hail of machine-gun fire from above tore through the enemy, scattering them like chaff.

Two figures dropped from the ropes, moving with practiced efficiency.

They found me, bleeding, still holding my rifle, my blue eyes wide and unseeing, staring at the horrors that still played out in my mind's eye.

I remembered being dragged, half-conscious, into the belly of the bird.

The cold, sterile air, the taste of metal and blood in my mouth.

The faces of my dead brothers and sister flashing before me, their screams echoing in my ears.

And then… nothing.

One day, I looked at my reflection, truly looked at it, and saw not just a stranger, but a glimmer of something familiar.

The same startling blue eyes, yes, but now they held a flicker of recognition, a spark of understanding.

The scar was still there, a jagged testament to a past I was slowly, painfully reclaiming.

“I was a soldier,” I stated, not a question, but a declaration. “A Spartan from Vinton, Iowa.”

“You were.” The reflection nodded.

“I fought in a war. And I lost my unit. Everyone.” The words were a physical ache, but speaking them, finally, felt like releasing a vice.

“You did,” the reflection affirmed, its voice laced with a shared grief.

“And I broke.”

“You did.”

“I’m not broken anymore,” I said, a fierce determination hardening my gaze.

I felt it, a strength stirring within me, a flicker of the warrior I once was.

The pain was still there, but it was no longer paralyzing.

The guilt of survival remained, a heavy weight, but now, mixed with it, was a flicker of something else: purpose.

The reflection smiled—a genuine, unforced smile that mirrored my own. “No,” it agreed. “You’re not.”

I looked around the small, white room.

It was still sterile, still empty, but it no longer felt like a prison.

It felt like a crucible, a place where I had been stripped bare, broken down, and was now slowly, painstakingly, being reforged.

I still had so much to remember, so many gaps to fill, so many ghosts to confront. But I wasn’t alone anymore.

I had my reflection, the keeper of my forgotten past, the silent witness to my slow, arduous journey back to myself.

I walked to the sink, splashing cold water on my face.

I looked up, my gaze meeting my reflection’s.

For the first time, I saw not just a man looking back, but a reflection of my own resilience, my own strength, my own will to survive.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“Now,” it said, “we remember the rest. And we live for them. For ‘Tank.’ For ‘Banshee.’ For ‘Whisper.’ For ‘Boomer.’ For ‘Angel.’ We live for all ‘The Spartans.’

The white walls still pressed in, but they no longer suffocated.

The journey was far from over, but for the first time in a long, long time, I felt a sense of purpose.

I was David Allen Xavier.

I was Dax.

I was from Iowa.

I was a soldier—"Farm Boy."

I was the last of "The Spartans."

I was all of them, but now—

I was also a survivor.

And finally, truly, ready to remember.

Posted Jun 30, 2025
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11 likes 14 comments

Tricia Shulist
18:02 Jul 06, 2025

What a strong story. The realities of war and loss. The damage done to the survivors. The memories that become torture. The personal rebuilding that occurs. Thank you for sharing.

Reply

J.R. Geiger
19:21 Jul 06, 2025

Thank you for your kind words.

I'm glad my story made you feel something.

Reply

15:31 Jul 03, 2025

You really bring out the emotion in this. The camaraderie of the unit. Not just soldiers but people, human beings with lives and homes. Beautiful writing that tackles war and death so sensitively. Great use of the prompt too!

Reply

J.R. Geiger
15:42 Jul 03, 2025

Thank you!!

Writing that was probably the toughest thing I've ever written in my life.

Reply

16:01 Jul 03, 2025

Bless you for that 🙏

Reply

J.R. Geiger
16:14 Jul 03, 2025

Thank you!!

I just renamed it to The Reflection.

I think it works better than The Last of The Spartans.

Reply

16:17 Jul 03, 2025

A different tone to the title, yes, I think more fitting to the overall message of the piece, and a little enigmatic too. Good luck with the contest this week!

Reply

J.R. Geiger
16:27 Jul 03, 2025

Thank you again!!

I did make a couple of editorial tweeks to the squad and FNG. Minor, ones.

But I think it flows better and hits even harder.

Reply

Mary Bendickson
16:20 Jul 02, 2025

Let the healing begin...

Reply

Michael Alonso
02:28 Jul 08, 2025

So colorfully written and vivid. The story brings out so many emotions. A struggle of the soul. Beautiful.

Reply

J.R. Geiger
10:44 Jul 08, 2025

Thank you for the kind words.

That is exactly the reaction I was hoping readers would have.

Reply

Michael Alonso
11:17 Jul 08, 2025

Excellent work!

Reply

Nicole Moir
01:37 Jul 07, 2025

Wow! Your ending was beautiful. he is all of these things. So many parts to him, all coming together to heal. This line got me: “You have to,” the reflection insisted. “You can’t heal until you remember.”

Reply

J.R. Geiger
10:00 Jul 07, 2025

Thank you for the kind words.

It was definitely hard to write emotionally.

Reply

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