The Eye of the Beholder (Original Short Story)

in Freewriters3 years ago

When Guilkinson joined the elite sniper unit, he knew his father would go bananas.

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Even though his motivations were clear, shared by his generation as some sort of Zeitgeist, you could say that defying the old man’s authority was part of it. And yet, he was joining an organization founded on blind obedience. So much for youth irreverence.

As an ex-military who left the force way before it got corrupted by political and criminal agendas, Mr. Lopez always advised his children against a military career. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to do something that goes against your family’s principles, even against God’s commandments,” he used to say. “Unless you have the balls to say no once in a while and pay the price of your disobedience, you should not wear a uniform.” That was his mantra, which he followed to the letter until it became impossible for him to continue wearing a uniform that was supposed to represent and embody justice, law, and decency. From those days to the day he learned this youngest son had become part of the most questionable branch of law-enforcement, much dark water had passed under the broken bridge of the law.

Mr. Lopez had not had much of a saying in the raising of this last child of his. He was not even able to question his name, which he found a vulgar corruption of a family tradition of Spanish names, and actually a grass corruption of an English family name. “You know you’ve hit bottom when you can’t even spell or pronounce the name of your own children,” he said. He was not surprised then when he was told his son was part of a sniper unit. “Everything starts with the right name. This one started with a bad name; it can’t end well,” he sentenced.

He avoided to cross path with his son on the few occasions he visited his mother, partly because, as he anticipated, their condition progressively became precarious while their son’s changed in the opposite direction. He started visiting on the official vehicles, then he came on his own motorcycle, then driving a fancy car, then an SUV. He was having so much success, he had not noticed his family, friends, and community were being shaken by the winds of stagnation and backwardness.

But one day, after some years without seeing each other, he ran into him when he was leaving for the market. Guilkinson was wearing civilian’s clothes. He had changed considerably. Not only had he developed physically, in his eyes the father saw what he feared the most when he lectured his children about avoiding the military. “How many innocent people have you killed already?” was the first question that came out.

“Is that the blessing you’re going to give me?” his son spitted.

“Please, don’t fight. It’s your son who is visiting!” his wife intervened.

“No amount of blessings are going to straighten his path now,” Mr. Lopez said, as he banged the door close behind him.

“What do you know about defending your fatherland? You quit on the military; you dishonored the uniform!” his son said.

“What do you know about honor? Look at you! What is honorable about obeying immoral orders as if you had no brains?” Mr. Lopez screamed from the middle of the street, visibly upset and oblivious to the crowd that was already stopping by curiously.

“You are a disgrace; you are not son of mine!”

“Good. I will remember that.”

“He did not mean that, son. Please, get inside, calm down,” his mother pleaded.

“Good. Who do you think you are protecting with that gun?” Mr. Lopez challenged his enraged son. “And you call yourselves ‘the army of the people’? The people is dying because the government that gun protects could not care less about them. We are people as long as we remain docile and quiet; else, we are less than animals.”

“Shut up. We are trying to put order,” the son yelled to the top of his voice, opening the door and facing his father. For a moment, the street went ominously silent. “There are traitors among the people who want to create chaos. We will not let them turn our father land into a mess so that the gringos have an excuse to invade us.”

Mr. Lopez walked towards the stubborn young man who, denying his reality, dared to also question his sanity. “It is YOUR government which creates chaos and whatever you call ‘fatherland’ is no-man’s land now. Maybe you have not noticed because you are too blinded by your little parcel of power and good life; the kind of life your government denies to the people.”

“You will regret this,” the young man warned as he turned back towards the house.

“I do regret many things, but saying what I said is not one of them. Do you have any idea what we have to go through to make ends meet? Do you have any idea what it feels like to live without a uniform or a string to pull up there in the high spheres of government? The humiliations in the endless lines, the loss of every single comfort in our lives, the weight of resignation that nothing works and never will? Do you?” his voice faded as he uttered this last question.

“That’s because you refuse to be helped,” the young man said, trying to get rid of the desperate arms of a mother who was unsuccessfully trying to pull him back into his home.

“I’d rather starve to death before I get your blood money!” the father said emphatically.

“Do not speak for my mother! She deserves better,” the son said.

“You should have thought about that before you joined them,” the father said.

“Please, stop,” the mother said and fell on her knees.

“Mom?” the son asked trying to lift her back to her feet and with the same impulse he shot a murderous look at his father. “This is your fault.”

Mr. Lopez stood in the middle of the street seeing how his son sped away carrying his wife. He would not see her again.

She died a few minutes later and he was not allowed in the wake or at the cemetery. He left town not so much fearing his son’s retaliation as his own self-mortification.

Years later, after successfully quieting the streets and ridding the revolution of any real or imaginary enemies, Guilkinson’s sniper unit was sent to neighboring countries on support missions, which they executed to perfection. Time had proven him right. The world was moving in the direction of the ideals he had been instilled in the military academy.

The country was being revitalized with the support of international coalitions. Foreign investment was a reality, only this time it would be done with an emphasis on the people, on the country, not to benefit transnationals, as it was done in the past. Great touristic project were on their way and the country was going to project once again an image of beauty and peace.

There was only one tiny problem, which needed drastic solving. Guilkinson’s unit was called to fulfill that mission. The streets, no matter how hard the government tried to clean them, kept spawning dirtiness and ugliness. This was, undoubtedly, the result of some conspiracy designed to undermine the efforts of a benevolent government that had devoted, more than any other in the world, countless resources to provide its people with everything they needed. It had never been easy to fight the anti-values of capitalist societies promoting drugs, alcohol, and consumerism as the ultimate end of human lives. People were rescued from the streets and given shelter and food only to see them back out vandalizing state property and now also private property and thus jeopardizing the new beautifying projects.

Guilkinson’s experience and professionalism were unmatched. He was now the leader of his unit and a mentor young snipers tried to emulate. He was the perfect soldier, the perfect patriot. No emotional attachments or conventions ever prevented him from pulling the trigger at the required moment. The integrity of the fatherland and of the leaders who designed its liberation was above any individual prerogative.

The briefing took place at the Force’s headquarters. The general in charged informed them that he spoke on behalf of the President and the Minister, but that they would deny any knowledge of such mission if ever asked. It had to be done cleanly and promptly.

International investment was not going to wait for long-term social programs to bear fruits. Dementia was incurable. Spending money and resources on it was as pointless as trying to persuade a true Christian that god did not exist. Like the Christian, no matter how much evidence you put before them, the insane will deny reality and go on with their fictions.

Anyone showing signs of insanity was a target. They would neutralize them and another unit would do the cleaning. They would start at the capital and move around as a sweeping expansive wave that would restore the country’s healthy and attractive look. Guilkinson was used to working under pressure; this task was nothing in comparison.

They had received the intelligence report of the targets usual location and, based on that, they occupied high positions from where they could deliver. Before ordering to shoot, he repeated the mantra to his disciples: “We are sons of the revolution; fatherland or death!” He had to put a couple of new snipers under arrest and investigation the very first day for refusing to shoot their targets.

When the capital had been cleansed, they moved to a nearby big town. There was a restaurant that had been surrounded by beggars and homeless who competed for the trash and were scaring the clientele. Guilkinson took the first target, a female in her 60s who he shot neatly on the head. He passed the rifle to a rookie.

“What do you see?” Guilkinson asked

“A roadrunner,” the rookie answered. A male target in his 50s who, after seeing the woman drop dead next to him, had started to run and scream, looking up and around like a madman, represented a challenge for the rookie.

Guilkinson snatched the riffle from his hands and took aim. He saw the familiar face of a man he thought long forgotten. Even behind the soot, the scars, the ragged clothes, and the furrows on his face, there was an air of familiarity in the fearless eyes of the runaway target.

“We are sons of the revolution; fatherland or death!” the rookie chanted.

Guilkinson pulled the trigger.

“Beautiful,” said the rookie.


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Intriguing article by the way

is it happening in Germany? Father land
And the country's solution to homelessness is i to snipe them?

Thanks for stopping by.
It's a fictionalized account of an extreme situation that may be taking place in any authoritarian regime.
The way the world is going, that kind of regime may be anywhere these days, but if course we have some first hand experience in our yard.
There are many ways of "sniping" "the people" and we know politicians would not think too hard to pull the "trigger".

Thanks a lot for sharing this story @hlezama, and with lot's of paralells to what happens in the world, if you shoot enough people you will eventually end up shooting family, let's hope the world can learn to stop this, enjoy your day and stay awesome.



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Thanks for stopping by and for supporting my content. You are right. That's one of the messages I wanted to get through.
People around the world find patriotic interpellations very appealing. They can easily renounce logic and common sense in the name of pompous agendas, despite any obvious contradictions.

Thanks for spreading the message and keep up your awesome work.

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