by Moore, Gabi
When you kill someone, regardless of whether or not they deserved it, you now take the responsibility for that life with you throughout the remainder of your own. As for the defensive component of all of this, the lives that you fail to protect will haunt you as well. The latter happens to be one of the strongest forces in perpetuating either side of a given conflict. When you’re in the heofit, politicians and morality tend to go out the window for most people. All you really want to do is get yourself, and your friends, home safely — though that doesn’t always work out as planned.
No amount of brotherhood mentality can offer the protection necessary to fail-safe a doomed mission.
We trained to be aware of eventualities and to prepare the foundational skills necessary to engage the unknown. As Navy SEALs, we were called to do things that most will only watch in the movies.
While all the world passively watched Hollywood’s fiction, it was our job to live the ugly truth, so the civilians could remain blissfully ignorant.
In the movies, you can’t feel the terror, or isolation. You don’t reach that edge of existence where you aren’t sure if you will ever return to ‘normalcy’. Most of my life I took that for granted. The ability to live life on the edge like that is what makes a good soldier, and an anxiety-ridden civilian.
In the moment, we are taught to keep calm in difficult situations. We are taught to anticipate, adapt and achieve. When the lull after the action comes in, and there is enough time for reflection, that’s when things get hard.
I didn’t have any time to think until after the fall, so that’s probably the best place to start our story.
The human body can descend from five stories into the water in just under one second. Problem was that my fall wasn’t graceful, and it wasn’t without molestation. I was snagged in the back of the head by a round on my way down to the water. I was lucky as hell, as the bullet only gave me a concussion, but head trauma is no way to start a five-story dive.
When you’re facing an absence of consciousness, you are spared the terror of impact, as well as the shock of the cold water. These things do not disappear completely. Instead, they tend to take form as echoes, or impressions more than concrete facts.
When semi-automatic weapons are firing overhead, and you’re outgunned, it’s a good idea to take the plunge regardless if you can see the water.
The positive thing about not being able to see the water at night is that anyone who shot after me wasn’t able to see very well either. They also clipped me in the shoulder, though I only remember that shot because of the scar.
I’m positive that if they had been able to see me, I would be a dead man.
When my body hit the water, the impact and the cold brought me back to my senses. The fact that I had just been hit didn’t mean much. My SEAL training provided an automatic baseline survival set.
Truthfully, there was little else going on, cognitively.
Can you move your limbs? was an automatic question I heard within myself.
Some folks have out of body experiences. They get to watch themselves go through traumatic events and hope that they make it out on the other side.
There is an element of detachment and unreality in these scenarios. People often report a lack of immediate awareness of the fact that they are in fact dead. They think they might wake up soon, and they think about noticing things that are happening around them.
I’m no psychic, but I can tell you that if you have trained something into your mind for long enough, that information is there in the sub-conscious state, just waiting to be utilized. Sub-conscious internalization of procedure is the mecca for recruitment officers and cult leaders alike.
I had retained enough of my motor skills to swim, though I didn’t have anywhere to go. The longer I swam, the more confused I became. My movements were like I was operating my body from within the confines of a dream. The connection between my physical body and the mind which commanded the muscles was at a hopeless gap. I totally lost my sense of direction, as well as my environmental context. Keeping up the movements was exhausting, and eventually, my will failed to be enough to save myself. Sooner than later, my ability to move slowed, and eventually stopped altogether.
Your best bet in that sort of situation is called the ‘Dead Man’s Float’. A bit ironic, that name, though completely understandable.
Had I been in that position for any longer, I’m not sure I would have made it. The water was cold, dark, and I should have died. In fact, I’m certain that the only reason I’m alive is because of my training, sheer stubbornness, and probably more than a few neglectful moments from whatever fallen angels should have come up to claim my life.
While I was floating, I had lost consciousness. When I woke up, I didn’t have any memory of the night before, and I didn’t know where I was.
All around me were the simple accommodations of a house by the sea. We’re not talking one of those fancy playboy mansions. I mean an honest to goodness, wooden shack. I knew I was at the sea, because when I woke up, I could smell the saltwater in the air. I could hear the wave lapping up against some type of structure just outside of the building. The smell of the sea was the only familiar element in my entire worldview. Thank God that one ocean is just as good as another.
For someone who made it their life’s mission to work around the water, the similarities make it less difficult to get homesick.
There was nobody around the shack when I first woke up. As a consequence, I had a bit of time to investigate the surroundings. Looking out the window in the room, I was able to see that the buildings were built close together. They were small, which meant that I wasn’t in a wealthy area.
My clothes were simple, layered, and from the looks of it, second hand. I was dressed in thermals that were gray and off-white. There were a few holes in the clothes, but because I was wearing layers, the holes only showed other fabric.
I reached my hands up to feel my face, and my fingertips brushed against a thin scrub of facial hair.
How long have I been out? I thought, reflexively moving my fingers and toes to make sure I retained a full range of motion.
I had shaved every day of my life since I was fourteen years old. I strained my head to figure out why I was there, but I couldn’t put all of the pieces together. I was alive, but so much of the other information was either scrambled or simply absent when my mind attempted access.
I was fortunate that I had ten uninterrupted minutes to take in my surroundings.
I stood up out of bed, and immediately felt weak. My shoulder had a severely limited range of motion. Upon closer inspection, I realized that not only had I been shot, but there was a scar on the outside of the entrance point of the wound which indicated that someone had performed surgery.
Damn, I was gone, I thought, realizing that I had no idea where the wound had come from.
When I touched the scar, flashbacks from the evening came to me in my mind. I saw myself from a third person perspective, getting shot at while my body dove headfirst into the blackness of the water below.
The experience jolted me, and my heart started to beat heavily. Anxiety overwhelmed me, as I struggled to put together exactly why I had been shot, and who had done the shooting.
Was I thrown into the water? Or was that my decision?
Adrenaline coursed through my body, and I began to grow dizzy. I had to leave to find safety, but for some reason I paused.
Whoever brought you here could have killed you by now, I reasoned.
I took a deep breath and resolved to stay put until someone showed up.
Helping myself to my feet once more, I wandered throughout the house. The home was little more than a fisherman’s shack. There were two bedrooms, though each of them were more like cubbies within the shack. The room that I woke up in had a faded photograph tacked on the wall, of a young woman with dark brown hair. She was smiling and standing next to an older man.
Grey beard, large brimmed hat, and a cigarette,
I muttered.
The older man was smiling, though the younger woman was a bit solemn in her expression.
The other bedroom was basically vacant, except there were a few tools that hung in their place on the wall. Hand tools mostly, and a couple of well-kept knives.
Without thinking, I grabbed one of the knives and began flipping it around in my hand. The blade moved with ease between my fingertips, and I watched with amazement at my instincts at work. Even with a wounded shoulder, I was able to manage the blade soundly with one hand; switching to the other wasn’t a problem either.
I walked into the kitchen and found a pot was on the stove, with hot water boiling. A radio was playing in the kitchen, and the station was set to classical music, which was interrupted by a voice which spoke the Italian language.
Without trying, I was able to pick up on the words that were spoken by the radio host.
“That song,” the voice said, “was performed by the classical pianist Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, as he plays Chopin’s Piano Sonata Number Two, written in B-Flat Minor. The song is a fervent piece which reminds us of both the temporal nature of our lives, as well as the depth of love which punctuates our struggles. And now for--”
I heard a noise outside of the shack, and my attention snapped into focus toward the sound.
As the next song began to play, I positioned myself to the left of the entrance to the shack. The water was boiling, and steam began to fill the air, accompanied by a shrill whistle. The figure at the door placed their hand on the door knob, and my grip tightened around the handle of the knife.
I held my breath, and the door opened.
Chapter 2 – Tyler
I saw that the man who entered was unarmed, and my body relaxed. I slipped the knife into the waistband of my pants and waited for him to notice me.
The man jumped in surprise and placed a hand on my wounded shoulder.
“You’re awake,” he smiled, placing one hand on his heart, to steady himself.
His touch was gentle, and I knew at once that this was the man who had helped me. My expression showed nothing. I stared at him, still trying to discern more about his character.
“Do you speak Italian?” he asked, looking into my eyes. He paused for a moment, and when I didn’t respond, he waved his hand dismissively.
His face was similar to the photograph, though he was a few years grayer. There were lines on his face, and his skin was well-tanned.
He let his shoulders fall, and then closed his eyes. Nodding to himself once more, he walked toward the stove and turned off the burner.
“Coffee?” he asked, gesturing to the stove, and looking to gauge my response.
He turned down the radio to a low, melodic hum, and measured out grounds from a glass container on the countertop. Two mugs were produced, and within minutes, I had a warm cup of coffee in my hands. He didn’t bother to talk to me anymore. Instead, he sat quietly with himself, allowing me to enjoy the espresso.
The drink was rich and put my mind at ease. The steam felt good in my nostrils, and the liquid soothed my throat.
We sat together in silence for several moments.
Then, raising his finger up toward the ceiling, as though he had just remembered something to share with me, he walked over toward me and patted me on my injured shoulder.
Out of his side pocket, he produced a small object, which he must have had on him for several days.
Holding the object up in front of me between his two fingers, I saw that it was a bullet. The metal was misshapen, from where it had struck.
He paused for a moment so I could take in the full sight of the bullet. I opened my palm toward him, and he dropped it into my hand.
“I pulled that out of your shoulder,” he muttered. “Good thing for you I couldn’t find the one that knicked the side of your skull.”
He tapped the side of my head just above my temple, and a shot of pain rang through my head.
I hadn’t noticed the pain before that moment. I only had been aware of a dull headache, and a sense of general disorientation. I turned quickly to stare at my reflection in the window. Straining, I pulled my hair to the side and noticed that there was a severe dent in the side of my skull.
“I bet that stung,” the man said, pulling some tobacco out of his pocket.
He sat down at a table as worn as the rest of the house. Positioned across from me, I watched as his weathered fingers dexterously loaded tobacco into a paper, and then rolled it together. His motions were fluid, and I could tell that this was a dance he had been performing for years. He didn’t spill a single grain of tobacco on the table. When he was finished, he placed the cigarette between his lips, opened the window and struck a match.
“You should tell me who you are. I’d hate to have to turn you over to the police.”
His threat hung in the air between us, and his eyes were trained on me. My body tensed, involuntarily, and my mind went to the blade that was secured on my waistband. The man exhaled, and tapped his cigarette outside of the window.
“So you do speak Italian?” he said. “The eyes do not lie.”
I placed the bullet down on the table between the two of us.
“How did you know how to pull that bullet out,” I asked.
“Do you know the name Bartolomeo Vanzetti?” the man said, ignoring me, and taking another drag of his cigarette.
I shook my head.
“He was an Italian fishmonger from the 1920’s, whose political and social beliefs resulted in his execution. He and another named Sacco were wrongfully accused of murder. Though that did not spare their lives. Another man came forward and admitted that it was, in fact, he that had committed the robbery and murder.”
After yet another long exhale, he continued his story.
“The point of this tangent is that Italy has a continuous history of working class people who have the need to know skills that are traditionally affiliated with those of more militarized persuasion. Something you’ve come into close proximity with recently, it seems.”
He tapped his cigarette over the bullet, dropping ash on the deformed bit of metal.
“Social unrest has been a pattern for us throughout the years. Not something that many foreigners can appreciate. Perhaps, not all are so ignorant of the utilization of force to fulfill the agendas of the few.”
The man finished the rest of his cigarette in silence. When he was done, he reached a hand out of the window and flicked the cigarette across the dock and into the water - no more than a few meters.
Having nothing more to add to the conversation, I held my tongue. I needed to know how much this man knew about me, and so I sat patiently.
“I realize that you’re not sure whom you can trust,” he said. “But believe me when I say, if I wanted to have killed you, I could have easily done so. Also, you could have have taken my life as soon as I arrived home, not twenty minutes ago.”
He sniffed and looked down at the bullet.
“You might even owe me an explanation,” he said, “if you can manage to produce one. Otherwise, another bullet, from a similar weapon might find me.”
His words caught me off guard. My hands reached up over my forehead. I nodded.
“Everything’s a bit murky,” I replied.
He scowled, and nodded his head slowly.
“Concussion. I found your body floating in Laguna Veneta. Who knows how much water got in your lungs.”
“Thanks,” I said, surprised to be alive.
“Don’t thank me, Giovane,” he muttered. “You traded one shark for another, and were fortunate that neither devoured you.”
I paused for a moment, reflecting on the man’s words. I didn’t know how to respond. Attempting to recall memories was a strain on me. The effort was rewarded by a headache which formed in clusters around the dent in my skull.
I was about to respond when I heard footsteps walking along the dock toward the house. My body tensed up, and the man casually pushed the bulle
t toward me on the table with the edge of his fingers. Without pausing, I picked up the bullet and secured it in the palm of my hand.
Chapter 3 - Tyler
A woman walked passed the window and began to open the door.
I relaxed, but I noticed that my host was not put at ease. In order to hide his obvious discomfort, he proceeded to roll another cigarette.
The woman entered, and at once I recognized her from the photo in the bedroom. Her hair was cut short, well above her shoulders, but her jawline was a strong, distinguishing characteristic that I immediately placed as coming from her father.
“Piper, Mia Bella,” the man said, turning to face his daughter.
She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He paused for her kiss, and the contact brought a slight smile to his eyes. His lips, however, remained in a dour expression.
Within moments, he had finished rolling his second cigarette, and with the practiced care of a man who has lit far too many matches, he ignited the end of it. I could tell by her expression that she was not pleased by the habit, but she didn’t bother to call him out.
“You have a guest,” she said, starting her inquisition on a non-personal topic.
“Yes, we were just talking a bit about social history.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, do you remember the story of the Anarchist Fisherman?“
“Of course. One of my favorites.”
“Ah, yes,” the man replied, looking my way. “Piper, you see, she has the spirit of someone who understands our great culture, but in practice, she is missing out on some of the core principles mentioned in the lesson.”
The woman scoffed and turned around toward the stove to heat the kettle.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.
“Your friend speaks Italian very well for a foreigner,” she said.
The man took another drag from his cigarette.
“I’m sure he has many surprises and skills. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Mia Bella?”
