Joy

In modern-day Russia, a rebel fighter gives an honest answer to a difficult question.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and tried to get him to look at me. I tilted my head and sang his name so softly that not even the deer in the forest could have heard, then sat in silence, waiting.

Finally, he glanced up from the rifles he was cleaning. With some mild irritation and eye-rolling, he surrendered to my inquisitive nature.

Fizih, what now?

The way he says my name makes me laugh.

What did you feel the first time you killed? I asked.

With the heavy questions again today, I see, he replied, stalling for time.

Come on, please? Just tell me. I promise I won't write about it.

He grinned, knowing I was lying. Then, he looked down and the moment vanished. He went back to cleaning for a few long seconds, and I watched how his hands moved over the gun parts like a piano player's. I wondered if he had always been so graceful, or if experiencing loss just makes a person more careful with their own life.

After a while, he stopped and put everything on the black tarp spread over the far-reaching tree roots. Then, he met my gaze again and told me, with tears brimming in his eyes and the saddest smile I have ever seen on a human being.

Joy.