[ WP ] `` They call us monsters , son . ''

My fingers were sweaty and slipping. The gun was heavy, far too heavy. I could n't lift it for too long without my shoulder aching painfully, the barrel swaying from side to side. My father stood above me, eyes searching through the slit in the window, staring out across the city. He was silent, focused - a gaunt bearded man, with a scarred neck and face. The rest of his wiry body was hidden under dirty rags, and on top of them an old flak jacket, dented and bloodied. 
 
 
 
 He did not speak much at all now. When he had returned that day, not two weeks ago alone, I had screamed at him for answers, but none came. The father I had grown up with for 13 years was gone. He would not say how Mother died. I knew she was dead. I could see it in his face. He did not even deny it, just stared blankly at me when I asked. 
 
 Three days later he had come back with the guns. I had woken up as the next round of bombs fell across the city, to find him missing. Hours later he returned with the two AK-47's, and a pair of protective vests, the larger one dripping onto the dirty floor of the house. I asked, but he did not say where from. He said that the enemy had arrived. After travelling through our lands and destroying villages, towns, and families, they had finally reached our doorstep. 
 
 And now he said they were coming in. 
 
 I shuffled over to the boarded up windows, heaving the AK-47 with me, to join him at the window. In the fresh morning light, I could see the ruins. Across the city, black columns of smoke soared into the sky, from crumbling buildings still on fire in places. I could hear the gunfire sporadically, gentle pops from shops and windows, from the streets and the parks. Screaming too. Wailing. 
 
'Do n't look down' 
 
 My father's voice was hoarse, grim. His eyes never left the street. I looked down. From our 1st floor window, I could see a figure. His mouth was open, screaming, as he dragged himself towards his house. Blood was flowing from the remains of his left leg, blood gushing onto the street. Further down the road, two dogs were pulling at the remains of a foot, the toes already chewed off. My throat closed up as I tried to scream, the gun in my hands nearly slipping through my sweaty fingers. 
 
 Suddenly I felt a hand at my neck, and father pulled me around to face him. His eyes met mine, and for the briefest moment he was back - my old father, the one who played with me, who took mother and I to dinners and to the park, who laughed and joked and smiled and cried. 
 
'It will be okay son. Do n't look at him again.' 
 
 But I had already seen. I knew who it was. I remembered the postman, making his rounds every day, a big grin on his face as he made his way through the hot sprawling city. 
 
'It will be okay.' My father said. 
 
 He had nothing more to say. He returned to staring out the window. I did the same, and followed his gaze. In the distance, a great statue of a man was beginning to fall. Huge ropes had been attached to it and as I stared the man was ripped out of place, and disappeared between the crumbling pyres of old apartment blocks. 
 
'There goes our good leader. Long may he rot' My father said, eyes returning to the street. 
'And here they come!' He grabbed me and pulled me away from the window. As he did so I saw them streaming into the street, barking orders at each other, a seething mass spreading to every house. 
 
 We crouched behind the upturned dinner table, and father did a final check of the guns. The table still had stain marks on from last month's family dinner, where a clumsy guest had spilt food onto it. 
 
'Father….I….' 
 
 I faltered, stumbling over the words. He finished loading the gun and handed it to me. 
 
'I ca n't!' 
 
 He looked at me. 
 
'Son, I love you. As I loved your dear mother.' 
 
 Loved. He had admitted it. She was dead. His eyes were staring into mine again. 
 
'But we have to do this. For her. For us - for our land, our home, our country. They call us monsters, son. Those that fight back. They say we should let them in, allow them in. No.' 
 
 There was a thud from downstairs as a door was kicked open. Shouting could be heard, muffled by the floor. 
 
'Remember who you fight for son. Did your mother care which monster was in command?!' 
 
 Bang. Bang. Gunshots downstairs. 
 
 There were tears streaming down my father's face now. I felt my chest heave as my own tears started, but I did not sob. 
 
'Our life was hard, our leader harsh. But it was a life. Now these invaders come, and drop bombs on us, and invade our home, and say they are doing it for us..' 
 
 Noises could be heard coming up the stairs, thunderous, a great horde that rattled the house. 
 
'They call us monsters son? No. We fight for our right, we fight for our lost. They are the monsters.' 
 
 He turned and readied his gun, pointing it at the door. I copied him. 
 
 There was a loud banging at the door. 
 
 
'Remember your mother' he whispered to me.'Remember her' 
 
 
 With a great crack the door burst open, and the figure in the doorway surged forward screaming'US MARINES, GET THE FUCK ON THE FLOOR'. 
 
 
 My finger reached for the trigger. 
 

