Joaquim Mohsen

This story was inspired by a quote from Dave Smith regarding war: “If one child dies in a war — whether it’s Gaza, Ukraine, or anywhere else — we should feel sad. … One dead kid should break your heart and make you question the whole damn war.”

“Mr. President?”

Jack sat alone on a cold steel bench, bent over in his navy suit and dark overcoat, hollow football lockers surrounding him. He was a slim man with a perfectly manicured face, hair groomed to the side, flecks of grey speckled throughout. His breath came shallow and fast. Beads of sweat formed across his forehead. He folded his hands together and bowed his head in sustained silence–something between a prayer and a panic attack.

“Mr. President?” 

Jack lifted his head. One of his Secret Service agents stood at the doorway–a young guy, chiseled jaw, hair neatly combed. Jack tried to recall the agent’s name. Tom or John? Some common name he couldn’t remember for the life of him. It bothered him, Jack wasn’t the type to forget. He prided himself on knowing every agent’s name. If they were going to take a bullet for him, he figured he at least owed them the decency to know their name. He decided to take a stab and guess, but another voice interrupted from the hallway. 

“Why don’t you give him a moment, son?” A portly man pushed past the agent and strolled over to Jack—Howard, his chief of staff. A character right out of the history books with his slicked–back thinning grey hair and his thick walrus mustache. He had that Southern swagger that could damn near charm anyone. One of the best chiefs of staff Jack could have asked for. 

Jack gave him a curt nod and motioned for him to sit on the bench across from him.

Howard looked around at the aluminum lockers and concrete walls and chuckled. “You know, I don’t think I’ve been in one of these since my playing days.” Jack responded with a forced laugh. 

Howard changed course and grew stern. He looked Jack right in the eyes. “You ready, Jack?”

Ready? How did he even begin to answer that? He wasn’t sure he was ready for ninety percent of his life. That wasn’t the question. The real question was: “Ready or not, are you going to do it?” 

Jack’s knee started bouncing as he avoided Howard’s beady eyes. 

“Hmph,” Howard grunted. He stroked his mustache a few times, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “Do you remember what it was like to go out there and play under the lights?”

Jack sniggered. It had been twenty years since he played, but he remembered it like yesterday: the thrill of battle, the anxiety creeping up his spine, the anticipation, the rush of the cheering crowd. Hell, sometimes he wished he would have given going pro a shot instead of politics. Much less bloodshed, that was for sure.

“Yeah, Howard, I do,” Jack said.

“Well, it’s gametime, son. You’re the quarterback. Your team needs you. The people chose you for such a time as this. It has to be you. Do you understand?” 

Jack sighed. He didn’t want to admit it, but Howard was right. Shit, that’s why he hired him. He was always right, no matter how much Jack wished otherwise. When you’re President of the greatest nation on Earth, you need a guy like that. 

“Yes, coach.” Jack said. 

“That’s right,” Howard replied. “Now I’m going to give you one minute. Pull yourself together, walk down this hall, and get the ball in the endzone.” Howard got up and left the room. Jack’s eyes followed him out and he stared at the open doorway.

This should be simple. At the end of the day, it was a no brainer. He had to do it. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in his heart. He knew he would save so many lives. It would be easy–one swift motion with his hand and poof! No war, no deaths, just peace. He let out an exasperated breath, stood up, bundled himself tighter, looked in the mirror, steeled his expression, puffed out his chest, and strode out of the room.

The same agent from before stood posted outside along with two others. Jack saluted them and mumbled his thanks. He nodded for them to lead the way. Out of seemingly nowhere, a whole host of agents surrounded him, crowding the hall as they marched down the tunnel. Jack could feel the cool breeze flowing from the end of it. 

They reached the end, where it opened onto the field. Aides and staff waited. He smiled at as many as he could. They muttered encouragement, shook his hand, patted his back. Howard forced his way through last before Jack stepped out into the field.

Howard put his arm around Jack, whispered a few words in his ear, and gave him a small but firm slap on the ass. It woke Jack up, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Howard responded with a wink. But the moment was fleeting, and they both resumed their serious faces. 

Jack paused once more, took a deep inhale, and exhaled. It was gametime. 

Cold bit the faces of tens of thousands packed into the stands. Billions huddled around screens at home, shoulder to shoulder with friends and family. The stadium overflowed, twice its capacity. Every inch of concrete and steel groaned under the weight, but no one cared. No one whispered about “danger” or “structural integrity”. Not on a night like tonight, when the future of their country was to be decided.

When Jack took his first steps onto the field, it was eerie. Crowds of people usually cheered when he arrived (well, either that or boos, depending on his polling numbers). Tonight, though, there was no wild applause, over the top ovations, raucous jeers. Tonight, a giant hush swept through every man, woman, and child–not just in the stadium, but across the country. With bated breath, every eye fixated on Jack. He kept his composure, but inside his heart beat faster. He felt the weight of every countryman’s eyes boring into him.

Usually only players, coaches, and the like populated the sidelines. But tonight people of all types flooded every inch of the field–nurses, teachers, janitors, young, old, men, women, poor, rich; it didn’t matter. Tonight they gathered as one nation, huddled together. Only one part of the field was clear: right at midfield, a wooden platform had been erected. 

The agents cleared a path ahead as Jack marched toward the platform. He soaked in every face, letting each one press into his mind. By the time he reached the base of the stairs leading to the platform, the differences blurred and morphed together. He gripped the railing and hesitated. His stomach churned, and the images of their faces started to fade from his mind. He felt himself shake. He turned and looked at them once more. His heart clamored. He tried desperately to cling to what he had seen moments ago but to no avail. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a little girl bundled against the harsh winter air, clinging to her mother’s side. She waved her mittened hand at him with a big grin on her face. Her blue eyes twinkled in the glow of the big lights. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He waved back and kept her face in his mind. She would be the face of humanity he clung to. 

Another deep breath, and then four steps. Each one he took with that little girl in mind. When he got to the top, he gasped. 

Reality was a fickle bitch that slapped him across the face. He had prepared the best he could for this moment. He knew what to expect the moment he set foot on the platform. But everything was thrown out the window. Right in the center, a fifteen year–old girl, plucked from overseas, thrashed about in heavy chains bound to the wooden floor. A metal contraption locked her mouth shut, reducing her screams to muffled, unintelligible groans. Her dark hair, thick with grease, fell in strings over her shoulders, and her bloodshot eyes, sunken into her skull, darted in every direction. When she saw Jack, they grew wider and she struggled even harder. 

Perhaps at one time, not so long ago, she was a young girl like any other–chubby cheeked, bright eyes, the radiant skin of youth. But now, her face sank inward, her skin was gaunt and pale, and her flesh clung to her bones. They dressed her in a raggedy pink flowery dress, and as she flung herself about, it slipped off her shoulders, exposing her naked breasts to the world.

Shivers traveled up and down his spine. He avoided her eyes and turned his back to face the crowd. Behind him, he heard the chains beating against the platform. An aide rushed forward and handed him a microphone. He focused all his mental energy on tuning her out. She became a whisper in the wind, a faint cry in the night–present, but ignorable. This is the way it had to be. He was not there for her; he was there for all. He gripped the base of the mic and started speaking.

“We don’t gather here lightly.” His jaw tightened. As much as he tried to push the girl behind him out of his mind, he could hear her squirming, feel her gaze on the back of his head. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “This will forever be our national shame. A shame we must carry for generations to come. Let us never forget that.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. They must understand, he thought. 

“We commit this evil, only with the knowledge that by not doing so, we will incur even greater evil.” His voice cracked and his hands trembled. A teardrop traveled down his face. He hadn’t planned on crying. Once he started, he couldn’t stop though. He glanced back at the girl, still fighting to be free. She could have been his daughter had he had one. She could have been that girl in the crowd. And the truth was, she was someone’s daughter. She was at one time just a girl in the crowd. She bore no guilt. This was to no fault of her own. 

“Let it be known, this young girl is innocent, guilty of no other crime than existing in such a time and place as this. Such is the cost of war. Watch and remember. War is never free.” His eyes lowered. He offered one more silent prayer. O God, let her father forgive me for what I am to do.

When he opened his eyes, the same aide presented him with a curved blade. Jack hesitated. It looked no different than the ones his grandfather used to slit the throats of the suckling pigs on his farm. He reached out and took it while handing back the microphone. He felt the grain against his fingertips. It would cut through paper effortlessly. The president held it up for the people to see and sauntered over to the girl. From all her struggling, the chains had bitten down into her wrist and drew small droplets of blood. He moved behind her and bent down. He lifted her dress back up, covering her bare skin. Tears poured from her eyes and she tried screaming again. He rose, grabbed a fistful of greasy hair, and forced her head back, exposing her neck to the sky. 

This was the cost of war. At one time, war was fought, and thousands upon thousands would die. Would it be better to go back to such a time? On paper it made sense–one life to avoid the lives of many–but standing here, knife in hand, and an innocent life at his feet, the argument didn’t seem so simple.

But it didn’t matter. The decision was made, and it was his job to execute it.

They locked eyes. The little girl from the crowd flashed across his mind, and her face became superimposed on the girl’s. He mouthed, “I’m sorry” and slid the blade across her throat. Blood gushed forth, and she crumpled onto the ground. Her eyes turned dull, and at that moment Jack knew. He dropped the knife and stumbled back. Red oozed onto the platform. He reached for his own neck. His throat constricted. He started hyperventilating. He loosened his tie. His head pounded, and the world grew dizzy.

Aides and Secret Service agents rushed to surround him. The crowd still sat in silence. A doctor emerged and huddled over the body. He searched for a pulse. Jack didn’t know why he bothered. One look in her eyes and it was clear she was gone. After a few moments, he signaled to Jack and then everyone else. 

Pockets of cheers started, and then more followed. Soon, the entirety of the stadium erupted. People jumped up and down. Strangers embraced. A mass of bodies mobbed Jack. They grinned and gave him slaps on the back. Jack’s heart tremored. He didn’t want to be here any longer. He slipped away and wandered back to the locker room. 

As he muscled through the crowd, all around he saw grinning faces and exorbitant joy. Mothers beamed with relief as they held their daughters. Fathers threw their sons on their shoulders and bounced them up and down as they waved their flags enthusiastically. He felt sick. All he saw in his mind was the girl’s corpse. Her dead, wide eyes etched into his brain. What had he done? He looked at his hand– blood lay splattered across it. 

He hastened through the tunnel. In the distance, he heard a chant of, “U-S-A, U-S-A”. He pushed into the locker room, eyes frantically searching for the sink. When he found it, he thrust his hands into the running water, scrubbing furiously at the blood.

He didn’t hear Howard come into the room. Howard bounded over next to Jack, unaware of what he was doing, and exclaimed, “You did it son! You did-” he stopped. His expression grew concerned. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Jack’s jaw fell, and he slumped back into the lockers. 

“Son, you did what you had to do, you understand that?”

“I know! I know!” Jack screamed, “It’s just–it’s just–”

“It’s just what?”

“Why did they have to cheer?”