All American Boys

Prologue

All-American Boys

Prologue

Persian Gulf

Leila Ramazani fiddled around with her seatbelt, muttering under her breath how uncomfortably crushing it was to her little frame. She held her favourite toy bunny in her hand; it was something she couldn't live without. Her mother was beside her, her head wrapped in a loose black shawl, her eyes shut as she caught some rest. 

Niloufar could feel her daughter tugging at her sleeve, and feeling slightly annoyed she gently slapped the hand away. She didn't mean to be so irritated, especially to her precious Leila, but the poor woman was exhausted. She needed sleep. It wasn't easy for her to get the week off. She barely had any time for her cherished daughter, but those sweet brown eyes and her cherub face was the one thing that kept Niloufar going as she toiled long hard shifts at the city hospital back in Isfahan. She could only hope the time they spent together on this short trip could make up for all the times she missed out on the important events in her child's life; like the time she missed Leila's eighth birthday, or the time she received a prize for winning the public speaking competition. 

Leila had always told her that it was okay, that she knew her mother had to work to help put food on the table. The money her husband earned was barely enough to scrape by, trickling home from his job in Dubai. Surely Leila would be more than happy to finally see her father again after all this time.

The young girl herself had trouble sleeping. It was her first time in the air, and she took in all the sights around her: the stewardesses in their black uniforms with gold trims, the other passengers strapped in their seats, but most importantly, the shining lights of the city below. She watched in amazement at how bright they were, the street lights tracing lines of gold in the dark earth below. Her mother had told her it was only going to take a short while. Feeling her eyelids get heavy, her left hand pressed the pink bunny toy against her chest, while she slipped her right into her mother's open palm. She gave it a little squeeze.

Her mother squeezed her hand in reply. The little girl couldn't help but smile as she closed her eyes, leaning her head against her mother's arm.

***

The young man couldn't forget that fateful evening. No, he could never. He couldn't let it slip away in the back of his mind. Just like how it was all slipped away from the public eye, covered up. The shroud of lies they threw over that mistake, that blunder, just so everyone involved could live with themselves. Just so that the people of the nation could carry on, not knowing the true magnitude of what they had done. They could lie to the people, but he couldn't lie to himself.

He remembered it clearly as he stood there on the deck. The night sky, a dark canvas faintly illuminated by the stars burst into blooming shades of red, orange and yellow. He remembered how he had to shield his face from the heat as the cruiser maneuvered through the wreckage. And that smell -of jet fuel igniting, of corpses charred- it'll never leave him. How could he forget?

And most especially, he could never forget the pair he saw drifting from the wreckage, floating atop of the dark sea: a mother and child. He knew that he'd see bodies in his line of work, but he couldn't stop staring at the little girl. Her eyes were closed, her face pale. In her arms she clutched a pink bunny toy. Did she knew she was going to die, or did she just go blissfully without knowing, her innocence shielding her from their tragic end? He didn't know her name, he didn't even know how old she was. He didn't even know that she existed until that point. But he wouldn't stop seeing her whenever he closed his eyes.

Day after day it just ate away at his soul, the guilt tearing away at his heart. It was his fault. If he had known, he wouldn't have done it. He wouldn't have aimed those missiles at that airliner. Someone once told him he was just following orders, but does that absolve him of anything? He was the one that shot down that plane. He was the one who operated the missiles that night. It was all him.

He taught about the decorations, the medals, the honours that he received. It was all meaningless to him, they didn't matter. What mattered to him then was the thought of the blood on his hands. Calloused palms that remained bloodstained no matter what he did. He couldn't forget, and he couldn't just cast it aside.

He tried to live a normal life ever since he left the military. Honourable discharge? It was such a joke, he thought to himself. There was nothing honourable about shooting down a plane full of people, be it accidentally or not. He always thought himself as someone with a moral conviction, but now, he didn't know what to think of himself. He couldn't help but feel so ashamed, guilt and sadness slowly encroaching his aching heart. Something about going on like this, living and moving on -it just didn't sit right with him. He couldn't bear this pain anymore. He couldn't bear shouldering such a heavy burden.

Enough was enough.

He turned his head up looking towards the starless sky. It looked exactly like that fateful night when he stood on deck. Everyone was sound asleep in the house. They wouldn't find him until the morning. The tears falling from his eyes, he only hoped they would understand. It was for the best. He couldn't live like this any longer.

Uttering a final prayer for forgiveness, he kicked the stool away.