playing pretend

I don't have to be myself when I write. I can be whoever I choose.

I can be James, a freelance war correspondent ducking behind a charred Toyota Camry. The remnants of its dark red paint job clash gently with the sandy backdrop of the Middle Eastern town he stumbled his way through. Vice doesn't pay James enough for this - he does it for the thrill and the stories. And he gets pussy every time he cycles back home to New York to finish editing his pieces.

James grew up with an alcoholic father in a New Jersey town where the most common post-high school paths are the steel mill and the police force. From sleepy towns to desert conflict, from silence to noise. He chases what his family couldn't provide: an opportunity to make something of himself, to be someone.

A bomb blast rips James from his daydream.

His camera flies from his hands as the blast knocks him off of his feet. His ears break, no noise aside from an intense ringing. Dusty dirt clogs his eyes; no vision, either. The ringing in his ears is intense, it won't stop. It's a broken high school fire alarm, screeching, amplifying the pounding pain in his head. The blast was close. Unnervingly close. James' heartbeat is a machine-gun, pumping round after round through his shaking frame.

He blinks a few times, rubbing the dirt from his eyes. Breathing deeply through his nose, he puts his hand on top of the Camry's tire and pulls himself to his feet. In the distance, he sees smoke billowing from the ground. His camera, blown several meters away, Appears in tact. Breathing again, he shuffles and limps toward it, scoops it up, and charges toward the smoke in the distance.