Smiles and Lies

I don’t remember if I smiled.  Before, I mean.  I smiled afterwards, I know that.  I smiled afterwards to test my muscle memory to see if I could remember if I smiled before.  But that doesn’t count. I still couldn’t figure out if I smiled when he came in. And it’s not as if I had great reason to smile, especially considering it was him who walked in.  But I can’t remember if I smiled or not when I saw him.

That second smile�"the smile to test my memory to see if I smiled the first time�"was the one they noticed.

            “Look at that enthusiasm!” said Major Bryant to my grim-faced peers, gesturing in my general direction.  I felt my face fall at his deduction. No need to smile now. Enthusiasm?  Moron.  All the same, he gave me a quick nod of approval�"a significant sentiment, really, coming from him. 

            But enthusiasm for what?  War stories?  Death and destruction? 

What’s the point of it all?

            I ducked my head to avoid being seen and felt myself glower, partly for his comment and partly because I couldn’t remember if I smiled, and mostly because I didn’t want to be here.  If I did smile, it wouldn’t have been real.  Course it wouldn’t have.  My smiles never reach my eyes.  My stupid, angry eyes that changed color with the day.  If your eyes are the window to the soul, then my soul is anger and pain and loneliness bordering the pits of despair.  But mostly it’s anger.  And a smile can never mask that, no matter how many countless hours I spend before the mirror practicing. There is no mask that can hide the story that my eyes tell. 

            I have learned, though, that if I smile, people are willing to believe that I’m a patriotic citizen, a freedom-fighter, just like them.  And it pisses me off.  Even if they see the anger in my eyes, if I put on a smile, they’ll choose to believe the smile, even if it doesn’t hide the anger.  They’ll overlook the anger altogether.  Stupid, really.  To not notice something so dangerously and blatantly obvious.  But they live a lie; best if they keep on believing in a lie.  Even if that lie has to be my smile.

            And I don’t remember if I smiled.  The first time.  It’s important, too, if I smiled at him or not.  It might not have reached my eyes, but the sentiment of smiling matters.  Or it used to, anyways.  And I can’t remember if I did.  That’s the tragic part of it all, I guess.

            It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to see him.  Actually, I really didn’t. He has no reason for being here. But I was glad to see him, in a way.  Glad that he was still alive.  That’s something, at least. More than I’d admit out loud. I hadn’t even known that much until he walked in the room.  I should have known.  The military broadcasts each week would have at least told me if he’d died.  I usually ignored those, preferring not to take any notice of the thousands dying each week.  The government calls them heroes. 

The government is full of s**t. 

            Maybe I didn’t care if he was alive or dead.  Maybe it didn’t matter.  So many people in my life have died unimportant, pointless deaths.  What would be one more to add to that list?  If he was alive, then fine.  I’d smile and I’d tell him the same lie I told everyone else.

            And I don’t remember if I smiled.  I’d lied, I know that.  I always lie.  I am a damn good liar.  But I don’t remember if I smiled.

 

            He walked into the room, his head slightly bowed, his shoulders thrust forward, hands clasped behind his back, trying to emulate the perfect soldier.  Head shaved, blue eyes quickly taking in the entire room as if sighting possible targets out of a crowd.  Camouflage uniform shirt tight across his chest and biceps, sleeves rolled up to the elbows�"a slight breech in protocol. FROST inscribed in black letters on the left side of his chest, right above his heart.  If he had one, that is.  I wasn’t quite sure anymore.  The black ink of a tattoo peeked out from beneath his sleeves, another breech. His posture read uncomfortable but commanded attention, an unusual and possibly dangerous combination for a soldier. 

            Eventually, after ruling out the possibility of threats, his gaze fell upon me.  Our eyes met.  Maybe he saw the anger, maybe he didn’t.  ‘Cause I don’t remember if I smiled, d****t.  I should have smiled, at least.  Probably.  Maybe. 

            No.  He didn’t deserve it.

            But I can’t remember if I did or not.  So it doesn’t matter. 

But it does matter.  More than anything, it matters.

 

            It was probably a breech in protocol for him to be here, in the same room with me.  Family is the insurance policy of a government full of s**t.  Go to war, do your duty, and if you’re a good little tin soldier, you’ll get to come back and see your family again.  Family is control.  Insurance.

That’s why he didn’t acknowledge my presence any more than I may or may not have acknowledged his.  If Bryant noticed the same name stitched into both of our shirts, he didn’t say anything, obviously assuming that we were, in fact, good tin soldiers.

            Maybe he was.  But I sure as hell wasn’t.

 

            Instead, he did what he came here to do.  He talked of some foreign land, gray and dark that smelled like blood.  He talked of men and women carrying guns all through the night, marching through swamps, knee deep in their own blood.  He spoke of burning towns full of screaming people. 

            But it didn’t matter.  He could be talking about the God Bless America’s and the God Save the King’s versus the Hail Hitler’s.  He could be telling stories from Vietnam or Iraq or Afghanistan.  It didn’t matter when or who or why.  It wasn’t worth a damn.

            Because he wasn’t talking about them.  It wasn’t the Vietnamese or the Muslims or the Germans or even the damn Koreans.  The God Bless America’s weren’t even the ones doing the fighting.  Or protecting, as they used to say. 

            Now, it was humanity against itself.  Fighting for the sake of fighting. Nobody gave a damn about -isms anymore.  Not after the world ended. 

Now there’s not much left to smile about.

Author's Note

This is her actually narrating what's going on. It's going to switch from this kind of narration to her speaking to Watson quite often.