This chapter will include some derogatory terms. So this is a bit of a warning.
Sorry for a late chapter got some bad news, and have been a bit down since :()
Why is it okay,
to mock and hate lives you betray, excuses you make to slaughter and slay
Why is it okay,
Yet if it's a face not like yours, you turn it into a play be it one of yours, you turn and look away. It was a hate crime, a murder but the truth you never display your injustice is showing and one day, you'll repay.
"It was just a bad day"
And I wonder how many more till you have nothing left to say.
By Ruttab Noor
The sun was beating down upon her tanning skin. The Georgian heat was officially a problem. The warmth in itself wasn't the issue; it was her skin soaking up the sun's flames, darkening it to a warm brown.
Kiran wanted to cry. She really wanted to cry—everything in her life felt strained, stretched taut like a fraying thread ready to snap. It was as if Allah himself had turned away from her, of course, she knew it not to be true considering the fact she was yet to be found out. That had to mean something.
One of her sister's letters had reached her during a mail call earlier that week. It was simple in form but heavy in its message. It asked her not to come but, at the same time, begged her to hurry up. It told her of the bombings in Britain, of shattered streets and sleepless nights, and of Zinebs' slowly growing stomach. The thought of her sister struggling alone made Kiran's chest tighten.
Apparently, the young woman had found a job as a nurse at one of the local hospitals, the pay wasn't very good though, it paid for her necessities but once it was time to push out a baby, she wouldn't have enough money to take care of them both and still work functioning hours let alone reduced ones.
Zineb needed to save but had no money over to do so. Kiran having received her first paycheck, a hefty amount of 100 dollars didn't hesitate, quickly putting 50 dollars in cash in an envelope addressing it to her sister along with a letter. The letter told Zineb she would be saving money on her own part so when she arrived on British soil they would be sure to have money to last if all the other boats hit the ocean bottom.
The letter did not address her own troubles, words carefully chosen. Simple endearments coated the letter's contents along with a curtain of optimism, hoping to be taken as calming when read. She wanted her sister to read it and feel a sense of calm, even amidst the chaos and stress.
The boys in her bunk teased her as she wrote, commenting on the loud, relentless scratching of her pencil against the parchment as she wrote. Thinking it was for their lessons. It was not. She pressed harder, ensuring the graphite etched itself deep into the paper, determined that her words would last. Even if the parchment never reached her sister's hand. The words would remain, frozen into the chemicalized tree forever. She wanted the promises to remain, the lines carved into the paper like a vow, lasting until the page itself crumbled into dust.
The second letter she wrote was filled with her own troubles, almost entirely opposite to the first one written for her sister. This letter was addressed to Femi and Amy in one. In hopes they would join each other once more to read of her shenanigans, and her sorrows. Where the first letter was hopeful, this one was raw, honest, and full of longing.
She asked about their health and the well-being of their families. Femi, an only child, still had both parents alive and well. Amy, on the other hand, had two brothers—one old enough to serve in the Air Force in Italy, while the other barely reached her kneecap. Writing to them felt like stepping into a time machine, opening a window to a life she desperately wished she could return to. Memories flooded her mind—of carefree days and youthful adventures, the kind of moments that felt like another lifetime.
God, she missed them. Especially on days like this, when training had been grueling, her body ached, and her mind wandered. The only reprieve was the fleeting distraction of the dark-haired boy who always ended up just ahead of her in line during drills. She'd overheard his name once during an exercise where she'd been put in charge.
Eugene. Eugene Roe.
A small, fleeting smile touched her lips at the thought, a rare moment of lightness in an otherwise heavy day.
--------------------
Kiran had just left the mail office, dragged out headfirst by Luz and Malarkey, who had grown tired of her fascination with postmarks in every shade and color. Even Liebgott and Tipper, who had joined the jokesters on their way to the pub, were exasperated by her endless study of plants, birds, and berries—what was safe to eat and what wasn't. She liked to learn about herbs, and remedies.
"Oh, come on, boss. I think you just wanna keep these pretty blueberries to yourself," Luz teased, dodging a playful swat from Kiran.
"Yeah, sure, because I'm just as stupid as you, Luz," Kiran shot back, smirking.
"Hey!" Luz exclaimed, clutching his chest dramatically as the group burst into laughter.
"C'mon, Kieran, you've seen one stamp, you've seen 'em all," Luz groaned, tugging at her sleeve as she lingered by the mailbox outside the camp post office.
"You're just jealous because you can't tell the difference between a regular stamp and a commemorative one," Kiran said, raising an eyebrow.
Luz gasped, clutching his chest again as if mortally wounded. "How dare you insult my philatelic knowledge!"
"You don't even know what 'philatelic' means," Malarkey quipped, rolling his eyes.
"Sure I do!" Luz protested, throwing an arm around Kiran's shoulders as they started walking. "It means...uh, something to do with stamps. Right, Kieran?"
Kiran shrugged off his arm, smiling faintly. "Close enough, I guess."
"See? I'm a damn genius," Luz declared, grinning as Malarkey snorted in disbelief.
"Yeah, sure you are, buddy," Malarkey said, slapping Luz on the back. "Next you'll be telling us you're an expert on...I don't know, birdwatching or something."
"Oh, don't get him started," Liebgott interjected, catching up to the group. "You give this guy binoculars, and he'll spend hours spying on someone's wife instead of the fucking birds."
"Hey now, I'm a gentleman," Luz said, feigning indignation. "I only watch unmarried women."
"Unmarried women who still wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole," Penkala added, earning a round of laughter from the group.
Kiran shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. "You're all hopeless."
"Oh, come on, Kieran, don't act like you're not entertained," Luz teased, nudging her with his elbow. "We're the highlight of your day, admit it."
"More like the headache of it," Kiran retorted, though her tone was light.
"What's that you're always scribbling in your notebook anyway?" Tipper asked, joining the group with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "Birds? Plants? Recipes for poison to put in Luz's coffee?"
"Don't give him ideas," Luz said quickly, drawing another round of laughter.
"It's none of your business," Kiran replied, her smile turning mischievous. "But if you must know, it's a list of things that would improve this group's collective IQ. A dictionary for starters."
"Ouch," Malarkey said, wincing. "He got us there."
"Not me," Luz chimed in. "I've got the smarts. Just ask Penk."
"Sure," Penkala said dryly. "If by 'smarts' you mean the uncanny ability to fall asleep standing up."
"I was conserving energy!" Luz defended himself. "A tactical decision."
"More like you're lazy," Kiran said, shaking her head.
"Lazy but lovable," Luz said, flashing her a wide grin.
"Debatable," she muttered, but the boys caught the faint hint of a chuckle in her voice.
As they approached the pub, the banter shifted.
"You know," Skip began, a sly grin spreading across his face, "I think they'll make you a sergeant with all that weird knowledge you've got."
Kiran's cheeks flushed, the heat rising to her face and darkening her skin even further. She hated how visible her embarrassment was without makeup to hide it.
"Oh, shut up," she muttered, nudging Skip with her elbow.
"No, really, you're top of our theoretical lessons, and you're really good at running short distances, and you ain't half bad with a gun" Skip insisted, his tone sincere now. The others nodded in agreement.
"He's not wrong," Tipper added kindly. "They're always putting you in charge. Must mean something. You're good at leading people"
"Yeah," Malarkey chimed in. "They know you can handle us misfits and if ya can do that, well then you can do anything. Ain't that right Luz!"
"Yeah, Or he's just really good at pretending he likes us," Luz quipped, earning another round of laughter.
"First round's on you, Don," Penk announced as they reached the pub door.
"Why me?" Malarkey asked, throwing up his hands.
"Because you're the only one who didn't chip in for Kieran's mail obsession fund," Luz said.
"Not true! I gave him—2 cents!" Malarkey argued.
"Wow, big spender," Kiran said, rolling her eyes.
"You're lucky I gave you that much," Malarkey shot back, grinning. "Now you can afford a single stamp."
"Or half a stamp," Luz added, earning a playful shove from Kiran.
By the time they entered the pub, the group was laughing and jostling each other, their camaraderie a protective bubble that almost made Kiran forget the weight she carried every day. Almost.
Entering the warm pub felt like a victory. The soldiers finally had their first-ever weekend pass. And they were surely going to use it to get shit drunk. "Special occasion, special measures" was the mantra the boys kept repeating.
Tomorrow their stations would be posted. So, hitting the bar was a must.
Kiran couldn't help but notice the "No Colored" sign hanging on the door as she approached the club. The words were a stark reminder that she was walking a thin line—an uneasy reminder of how easy it would be for everything to go wrong. This wasn't her place, but she had to be here, at least for the moment. Being North African and with her slightly lighter skin tone, she wasn't technically categorized as black. It gave her a slight edge, a way to possibly slip under the radar. But that only worked if people weren't paying attention.
Anyone with even a basic knowledge of geography could tell that Morocco was part of Africa. And with what they thought were "Arab" features—sharp nose, darker skin, and eyes that didn't quite match the stereotypical American soldier—she wasn't going to blend in as easily as she'd hoped.
Her pulse quickened as she stood there, trying to steady her breath. The place was crowded with soldiers who had long shed their uniforms in favor of civilian clothes, and laughter floated out through the door—carefree and loud. Yet her anxiety didn't waver.
"Hey, Kieran, could ya get us a table or what?" Liebgott's voice called out, dragging her back to the present. She turned, forcing a smile on her face, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.
Yeah, sure," she muttered, scanning the room as the others headed for the bar to grab drinks. Being alone in a place like this, with that sign on the door, sent a shiver down her spine.
When she was younger, she'd always stuck to pubs and bars where colored patrons were welcome—never white places. It was stupid to do otherwise, to put herself at risk. Even then, she'd rarely been alone; her friends had always stayed by her side, watching her back. But now, sitting alone in a crowd of strangers, she felt the weight of her isolation in a way she hadn't before. She finally spotted an empty table in the corner and settled herself there, her unease prickling at the back of her neck.
Kiran barely had time to light her cigarette when it happened.
A hand slammed itself down on the table startling her.
"What's a sand monkey like yourself doin' here" Kiran looked up, her pulse quickening. Three men stood around her table, their stances wide and threatening. Their expressions were twisted with disdain, eyes narrowing as though they were sizing her up.
She took a slow drag from her cigarette, willing her hand not to shake. "I'm sorry, what the fuck did you just call me," she said, her voice steady, though her heart was pounding. She stayed seated, he wouldn't touch her if she stayed seated. She was a woman, and someone would surely intervene, even if she was a browner girl. If she left, he had free range, he could do as he pleased with her then. She had to stay seated.
And then it hit her, like a punch in the stomach. She wasn't a woman now, was she.
The man in the center leaned closer, his breath reeking of whiskey and stale tobacco. "You heard me, boy." The word dripped with venom. "I said, what's a sand monkey doin' in here?"
Kiran stayed seated, her legs tensing beneath the table, ready to bolt if she needed to. "I'm here the same as anyone else. Having a drink, minding my business. Maybe you should try it."
The men laughed—a low, cruel sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
"Minding your business, huh?" another one said, circling behind her chair. "Well, your business ain't welcome here."
The man in the center straightened up, his hand still resting on the table. "You know what's funny?" he sneered. "You people always think you're so damn smart. Like you can just walk in anywhere, like you belong."
Kiran's jaw tightened. She stayed silent.
"Not gonna say anything now, huh?" the man behind her said, his voice mocking. "What, cat got your tongue? Or are you too scared to talk back?"
"You ain't allowed in here, you skunk-fucker." One of the men stepped forward, grabbing her uniform collar and yanking her up. "You disgust me, you son of a bitch. You stink up the entire fucking place." His eyes bore into hers, like drills. "God gave you that dirty skin so we could recognize shit when we saw it."
The fury inside Kiran surged, hot and consuming. She was really fucking angry. Her hands balled into fists, her body coiling like a spring ready to snap—but then that voice in her head, that quiet little voice, whispered the harsh truth. If she had learned anything by living in the USA, it was this. It wouldn't matter if he hit her first. It wouldn't matter if she kept her mouth shut. She would get the blame either way.
Even so, she could not hit him. Because the bruises she received now would have nothing on the beating she'd receive from her superiors if she laid a hand on this excuse of a man. This white man.
But still, she couldn't let him see how much he was getting to her. She couldn't let him think he had broken her. So, she did the only thing she could think of—she summoned every bit of spit in her mouth and let it land right in his eye.
......
That seemed to do it.
The first punch landed squarely on her face. The second was a kick to the groin. The third hit her eye, sending a sharp, searing pain through her skull.
She stumbled, her vision blurring, but her body refused to go down. It wasn't until her face started to repeatedly hit the table and blood started flowing that people around them began to take notice.
Shouting erupted. Someone screamed. And then, silence.
She counted the seconds in her head.
Her eyes became hazy. And she felt herself hit the floor with a thud. When her body could no longer keep upright her face took the brunt of the fall.
She could hear shouting and someone screaming. Then silence. She counted
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
And then she felt herself being lifted off the ground. Her neck couldn't support her head, and her body slumped, limp and unresponsive. Darkness edged her vision, but she clung to consciousness, refusing to let it swallow her.
Only when she heard that slightly familiar voice did she let go.
Ironically it was exactly what the voice told her not to do
----------------------
When Kiran came to, she was lying on her bed. The room was dim, and everything felt heavier than usual—her body, her thoughts, even the air. Something cold ran down her face, soothing the dull throb beneath her skin. But just as quickly, the cold was replaced by something slightly harsher in texture wiping it away, the sensation dragging across her cheek.
"Stop it," she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her body instinctively recoiled, though she lacked the strength to move far. The warmth on her skin was unbearable, smothering, and she longed for the cold to return.
The feeling shifted again, this time sharper, a faint ache radiating from her temple. Her eyes shot open, the pain cutting through the haze in her mind.
Her gaze landed on Eugene Roe, sitting in a chair beside her bed, a damp cloth in his hand. He looked startled for a moment, as though he hadn't expected her to wake so soon. His dark eyes softened as he met her confused stare.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice gentle. "Easy there. You're alright."
Kiran blinked; her thoughts sluggish as she tried to piece together how she'd gotten here. The pub. The fight. The punches. It all came rushing back in fragments, like a broken film reel. She winced as she tried to sit up, but Eugene was quick to lean forward, pressing a steady hand to her shoulder.
"Whoa, take it easy," he murmured, his Cajun drawl more pronounced in his quiet tone. "You took a hell of a beating back there. You need to rest."
Her head lolled back against the pillow, the ache flaring up again. "What...what are you doing here?" she managed to ask, her voice hoarse.
Eugene held up the cloth, now tinged with faint streaks of dried blood. "Making sure you don't pass out again," he said simply. "You've got a nasty cut on your forehead. Nothing serious, but it'll sting for a while."
Kiran frowned, her brows knitting together. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why are you helping me?" she asked, her tone sharper than she'd intended. She regretted it immediately when she saw the flicker of surprise in his expression.
Eugene leaned back in his chair, his hand resting on the cloth in his lap. He seemed to consider her question for a moment before answering. "Because someone needed to," he said finally, his voice steady. "And because I wanted to. That a good enough reason for you?"
She didn't reply, her gaze flickering away from him. She wasn't used to this—someone taking care of her, someone seeing her in a moment of vulnerability. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
"You're lucky it wasn't worse," Eugene continued, his tone lightening slightly. "That guy could've done some real damage if Liebgott and Guarnere hadn't stepped in when they did. Your friends pack some mean punches."
"Yeah, well," Kiran muttered, shifting slightly on the bed, though every movement sent a fresh ache rippling through her body. "I've had worse." She hadn't. "I'll have to thank them."
Eugene's lips twitched, a faint flicker of amusement crossing his otherwise serious face. "Yeah, that wouldn't be wrong to do." His gaze dropped to the cloth in his hand, his brow furrowing slightly as though deep in thought. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something more, but instead, he cleared his throat and looked back at her. "Somehow, I don't doubt that," he finally added, his tone dry but not unkind. "But next time, maybe don't pick a fight with a drunk twice your size, huh?"
"I didn't pick a fight," she snapped, a spark of indignation flaring up. But her voice softened almost immediately, her energy too drained to hold onto the anger. "They started it."
"Figures," Eugene said, his voice quiet, almost resigned, as if he'd seen this kind of thing far too many times before. He reached for the bowl of water on the bedside table, wringing out the cloth with practiced ease before folding it neatly.
Kiran's eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of the others. "Where are the guys?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.
"Training," Eugene replied, leaning back in his chair. His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of reassurance in it. "You've been out since Saturday night."
Her eyes widened, and a groan escaped her lips. "Ahh, fuck me. Wasted the entire weekend sleeping."
Eugene's lips quirked again, this time into the faintest hint of a smile. "Could've been worse. You could've spent it nursin' broken ribs or somethin'. You needed the rest."
Kiran huffed, her frustration mingling with the dull ache in her head. "Resting isn't exactly how I planned to spend my first-weekend pass."
Eugene didn't respond right away, his eyes flickering over her face as though assessing her injuries again. Finally, he said, "You're lucky your friends got you back here when they did. And luckier they didn't let that guy get away with it."
Kiran's gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Yeah," she murmured. "I guess I owe them one."
Eugene leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His tone shifted, quieter now, almost hesitant. "You've got to watch yourself, Kieran. Some people out there...they're just looking for a reason to start something. You can't give it to them."
Kiran met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. She could see it in his eyes—he wasn't just talking about the fight. There was a weight there, a shared understanding of the world's harsher truths, and her place in it.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said softly, though her voice carried more gratitude than sarcasm this time.
Eugene nodded, satisfied for now. He picked up the cloth again, his movements slow and deliberate as he returned to tending the cut on her forehead. Despite the sting, Kiran found the quiet focus of his care strangely grounding, like an anchor in the storm of her thoughts.
"Thanks," she said after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.
Eugene didn't look up, but the corners of his mouth twitched again, that almost-smile reappearing. "Don' go thankin' me yet," he drawled, his accent thick but his voice soft. "Ain't done with ya."
The silence between them lingered for a moment, broken only by the occasional shuffle of Eugene wringing out the cloth. Kiran's mind, still hazy from the blow and the hours of unconsciousness, wandered aimlessly until a sudden thought jolted her.
"Wait," she said, her voice sharper now, though still weak. "Didn't the positions come out today?" She shifted slightly, ignoring the way her body protested the movement. "Do you know what I'm going to be doing?"
Eugene paused, the damp cloth frozen mid-air. He glanced at her, his expression carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of hesitation. "Mmm, yeah," he said slowly, his voice measured.
"Well?" Kiran pressed, her heartbeat picking up slightly. She could feel her pulse thrum in her temples, half from anticipation and half from the lingering headache.
Eugene finally set the cloth down, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms. He studied her for a moment, as though weighin' his words. Then, with a faint smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes, he said, "Seargent Matek."
For a second, Kiran thought she had misheard him. Or maybe she'd finally passed out again and was hallucinating. She blinked rapidly, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "Wait—what?" she managed to croak out, her voice an octave higher than usual.
Eugene's smirk widened just slightly, though his tone remained steady. "Y'heard me. They done made ya a Seargent."
Kiran stared at him, her mind reeling. "Are you... are you serious?" she asked, half expecting him to burst out laughing and tell her it was some kind of elaborate joke.
"Dead serious," Eugene replied, his voice calm but firm, the Cajun lilt softening his words. "Word came down this mornin'. Congratulations, Seargent."
Her head spun, and for a moment, she genuinely thought she might faint again. And not only because of the pretty face in front of her, "No... no way," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "That can't be right. I mean, I—"
Eugene cut her off with a small shrug. "Look, I don' make the rules, yeah? But somebody higher up thinks ya got what it takes. An' for the record, so do I."
Kiran let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her hands clenching the edges of the blanket. The weight of the news settled over her like a lead cloak—equal parts pride, disbelief, and dread. "A Seargent," she repeated, almost as if saying it out loud would make it sound less absurd.
"Best get used t' it," Eugene said, his tone almost teasing now. "The others already callin' ya 'Boss.'"
Kiran groaned, burying her face in her hands despite the way it made her head throb. "Oh, fuck me. They're never going to let me live this down."
Eugene chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. "Nah, prob'ly not. But for what it's worth..." He hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "I think y'gonna do just fine. You're tough, Matek. Even if y'got a habit of pickin' fights with drunks twice your size."
She peeked at him through her fingers, her lips twitching despite herself. "I didn't pick the fight," she muttered, though her voice lacked any real heat.
"Sure ya didn't," Eugene said, his grin widening.
Kiran let out a soft huff of laughter, her headache momentarily forgotten. But then she shifted her gaze back to him, a teasing glint in her eyes. "How about you? I'm sure they made ya a medic. Am I right, or am I right?"
Eugene's cheeks flushed ever so slightly, and he rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking younger. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice quieter now. "They did."
"Huh." Kiran leaned back against her pillow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "I bet that's why you're sittin' here now. Not for my charmin' company, huh?"
Eugene blinked, his brows furrowing as if unsure how to respond.
Kiran turned her head away, her gaze drifting to the wall. The sting in her chest was sudden and unexpected, like a sharp twist of regret she didn't quite understand. Of course, he wasn't here for any reason other than duty. Why would he be? He thought she was just another guy—a soldier like any other. And maybe that was good. No attachments, no complications. She didn't need... anything else.
Still, the words came out before she could stop them. "Guess it's just part of the job, huh? Lookin' after people like me. Dumb enough not to fight back." Her tone was light, but there was something brittle beneath it, like glass on the verge of cracking.
Eugene frowned, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied her face. "Now hold up," he said, his Cajun drawl soft but firm. "Ain't like that. Don' go talkin' down on yourself. I ain't sittin' here jus' 'cause I have to. I wanted t' make sure ya were alright, yeah? Even if ya are stubborn as hell."
Kiran blinked, startled by the raw earnestness in his voice. There wasn't a hint of pity in his expression, just quiet sincerity. She looked back at him, suddenly unsure what to say.
Eugene's lips quirked into that familiar, almost-smile as he leaned back in his chair, the moment of tension easing. "Besides," he added, his tone turning teasing, "ya are pretty entertainin', even when ya get yourself knocked out cold. A real showstopper."
A laugh bubbled out of her before she could stop it, the sound surprising both of them. "Glad to know I'm good for somethin'," she said, rolling her eyes but unable to keep the corners of her mouth from twitching.
"More'n somethin'," Eugene replied simply, his voice quiet but steady. There was a weight in his words, subtle but undeniable. Then, as if sensing she might need the space, he turned back to the bowl of water, dipping the cloth again with slow, deliberate movements.
Kiran didn't say anything after that, but as Eugene gently pressed the cool cloth to her temple, the knot in her chest loosened just a little. The ache in her body was still there, a dull throb reminding her of her mistakes, but something about Eugene's presence softened the edges of her pain.
Maybe it was the way he worked in silence, no unnecessary words, no judgment. Or maybe it was the haze still clouding her mind, making her too tired to resist the strange sense of calm that settled over her. Either way, she found herself trusting him more than she thought she would.
And for now, that was enough.