Two

Two grimy years. Two years in a straightjacket. Two years clinging desperately to some sense of the self oozing between the cracks of the vice of imposed will; dripping helplessly, mingling with the remains of so many others splattered across the floor. Two dirty years. Two years driven like an ox: run, stop, stand, sit, sleep, wake, eat, capture, kill, repeat. Two years a parrot: yes sir, no sir, yes sir, no sir, what sir, when sir, where sir, who are you sir, who am I sir?

He wondered as he pressed the barrel of his machine gun into the ribs of an old man, the calm leathery face beneath wisps of white hair showing no sign of concern. Apparently unaware that he was about to die. Or unconcerned. A single naked bulb cast harsh shadows across the wrinkled face. It was a tiny room. Here an iron stove, there a tired chair. Neat rows of small stylized flowers on the peeling wallpaper. Trinkets, gifts, beads, memories cluttering the shelves. A few precious photographs, shades of silver, the edges worn from hands, fingers. They told him he was fighting for the country, fighting communism. But East, West, it made no difference to him. The old man was innocent.

Puffs of smoke encircling the khaki uniform imported directly from Britain, Hellenic Army insignia an afterthought. The glowing cigarette butt was discarded to the bare floor, extinguished beneath a gleaming black boot. Pull the trigger, Kostas. Kostas, did you hear me? Kostas, pull the trigger! Kostas, are you awake?

Run, stop, stand, sit, sleep, wake, eat, capture, kill, repeat.

He was so gung ho at first. The family vineyard was decimated after the war, his sisters would be forced into factory labor or worse, of course he would join the army, what other choice was there? He was proud to do the right thing. She was proud of him. She would wait.

She.

The right thing? Which right thing? What right thing? Whose right thing? To save his own by driving thousands of innocents into the strange limbo of homelessness, countrylessness, welcomelessness and mailing home the paycheck every month?

She.

Thousands, millions of locals, tourists, students would pass by those initials, K + Φ, immortalized for a few years at least in the trunk of an unremarkable olive tree among the ruins of Olympia. But only she would know.

Run, stop, stand, sit, sleep, wake, eat, capture, kill, repeat all over again.

Two grimy years. Where do I get off?