The Last Sip

By Dia Grover

They’ve been here for two hours. Two hours. The sea blue walls screaming at them, the ‘clinks’ of the collision of the spoons with their plates, the constant chattering of people, rambling on about their day, work and whatnot, and the aroma of cinnamon all seemed to fade into the background for the two women sitting in the middle of the cafe, silent. Waiters scurried past, the ‘ding’ of the bell rang, signifying a new customer walking in, and cars zoomed past through the window. One, then two. A bike, here and there. But both of the women seemed to be paralyzed by time. 

After they skimmed over the papers cluttering the two tables they are taking up for what seemed like the hundredth time, the brown, wavy hair of the woman on the right bounced, while the silky straight, blonde hair of the other woman glided across her back as they turned their heads towards the analogue clock on their right to check the time, which seemed to move as slow as a turtle today. The synchronicity of their heads moving was interestingly parallel to clockwork, as they exchanged disappointed glances and occupied themselves with their respective tasks once more. Just like that, the world once more became as insignificant as a fly, as the women before me sank into stoned oblivion once more. 

The repetitive clicking of a pen was like a ticking time bomb. The wavy-haired woman's knee bounced, her short brown boots making a sound. The blonde’s lower lip disappeared between her teeth as she chewed on it nervously, her lips now chapped due to the incessant biting. The brunette sipped on her third cup of coffee. They went back to their papers, analysing them like it was the bane of their existence. It would be wrong to interrupt them. Their work looked sacrosanct, and had they not been sitting in the midst of a crowded meeting, the apprehension palpable in their facial expressions may have communicated to a layman that the work they were doing was somewhat illicit. 

The beep of the watch on my hand signified it was the end of my shift, however it seemed wrong to leave. Every bone in my body urged me to stay, to go over there, to do something. What that ‘something’ was, I could not comprehend. Nevertheless, taking one last glance at the cryptic women before me, I turned to wash up before I left. I winced as I heard my gut scream at me to go back as I washed off the pain in my joints from lifting countless cups of coffee, a plethora of plates and from cleaning a tremendous number of tables. 

And then, I heard it. I felt my body go rigid. I felt my heart sink. I felt the tremor in my bones. As the piercing sound of a gunshot echoed the room, I found that my fight or flight instinct chose violence that day, as my legs miraculously carried me out front, to the counter. A wave of insurmountable regret washed over me as I saw, on my right, a black, masked figure, holding the dreaded weapon. But on my left, I saw the reason I should always trust myself. To my complete and utter horror, I witnessed the two women, in their gloriously sinister beauty, stand. The two women, out of whom I had failed to catch even a slight shift in expression, had now contorted their face into an ominous smirk. 

Abrupt realization struck, as my senses registered that I was the only person in the room- apart from the three villainous silhouettes in front of me- who wasn’t quivering in fear on my knees. 

“Didn’t you hear me?” the masked figure growled, his voice booming. “I said, get down!”

I didn’t need a face; that voice was enough for me to recognize that the malicious eyes of the masked man in front of me were once full of respect and trust. The comfortable cove I’d built of my present came crashing down as the sickening taste of the past filled my mouth. 

 I muffled a sob as I stared at the three graves, aligned side by side. Two brothers, and a sister were lost today. I was thrust into the same, dark cave in my mind. “What if you could’ve gotten there in time?” “What if there was something you could’ve done?” “What if they called for you, but you just didn’t hear them?” “What if their blood is on your hands…?” 

“It’s not your fault, ma’am” I was brought back to reality as I heard those words in a voice that was not my own. I turned around to see General Dalton come up and sit beside me. “It feels like that sometimes; I’ve felt it too. But you’re going to kill yourself thinking like that”. I wiped my tears, unable to hide it any longer. “You should be in bed, General.” I managed to say. “As should you, lieutenant. But just like you, the voices in my head just won’t seem to quit” he admitted quietly. The burn in my chest seemed to lessen as I realized that I am not alone. I recalled meeting Dalton the first time, when he was just a common soldier, and me, just a general. But this boy had proven himself time and again, and I considered him a brother, with a bond deeper than any other I shared in this place. Perhaps, it was the only thing keeping me sane in the asylum we called the army force. 

I loved my country dearly, and fighting for it gave me hope, and purpose, however it was on days like this where I felt I was going insane. Dalton and I sat there for what seemed like hours, before our comfortable silence was broken by him. “Do you ever think about what you would do, once we make it out of here?” he asked, his eyes coated with vulnerability. I chuckled. “I’m going to go to a nice, small town, buy a small home, and work at a coffee shop” I recited the plan I had visualized so many times in my head. “A coffee shop?” he questioned. “A lieutenant working in a coffee shop. If only I live to see the day.” he mused. It may have sounded silly to him, but for me, it was a haven. No more sounds of gunshots. No more losses. No more trauma. No more pain. 

As I jerked myself out of my thoughts, my eyes focused on Dalton once more. Why was he doing this? Why here, why now? He had wanted a life of peace, just like me. How did he get mixed up with these women? What could possibly be going on in his head? Maybe I could talk to him? Did he really not remember me, or is this just a facade? We were close, once upon a time. Why, why, why? 

Questions loomed in my head as I tried to grasp the situation. “Dalton,” I pleaded. “Please, it’s me. I can help you. Just let me help you.” Just for a moment, I saw his eyes flash with the same vulnerability as that day, before they turned nasty, and cruel once more. “This is your final warning, lady. Get. Down.” No. No, no, no. This was not him. There was something wrong here, and I was creepily aware that it had something to do with these two women. I walked closer to him. “Dalton, whatever they’re telling you, it’s all lies. You don’t have to do this, I promise, you don’t.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment before I had the epiphany that tears were now pooling in them. “I’m sorry.” was the only thing I heard him whisper before the loud ‘BANG!’ caused my ears to ring. 

Pain ricocheted in my body, as my senses gave out and my body betrayed me. First, it was my legs. Then, it was my torso. Eventually, it came to my arms. But finally, it reached my brain. The fibres of my body went numb as it dawned on me that the excruciating pain, as slow as a snail, but somehow blindingly fast was the bullet now planted in my head. My final breath wasn’t enough to scream “Help!” as I realized my ability to speak was also gone, and suddenly… Everything went black. 

By Dia Grover