Death of a Child

The sun had just begun its descent, casting a warm glow over the coast of the Black Sea in Ukraine. The day had been calm, the kind of deceptive tranquility that often preceded a storm. The beach, with its golden sand and gentle waves, was a stark contrast to the turmoil that had taken over the country.    
   
The young girl appeared suddenly, a blue dress fluttering against the backdrop of the shore. She was young, her legs carrying her with the determination of one who still believed in the possibility of escape, of survival.    
   
As she ran, her face was etched with fear and hope. She was a child approaching womanhood, her life, a piece of cloth still being woven. In her mind, perhaps, flickered the dreams of what might be—of loves yet to be known, of laughter yet to be shared.    
   
But on that day, on that beach, such dreams were as distant as the horizon where the sea met the sky.    
   
I was a soldier, a ghost perched upon the cliffs with my rifle. My orders were unambiguous. The enemy was anyone who breached the perimeter, even if they wore the guise of innocence. My heart, a fortress of numbness, had no room for hesitation.    
   
As she continued her desperate run, I aligned the crosshairs of my scope with her approaching form. I was the instrument of death and on that day I would write another passage in the journals of war.    
   
The shot rang out, a thunderous verdict dwarfing the gentle waves against the coast. The sound echoed against the bluffs behind the child and rolled over her as she crumpled face-forward into the sand. She was still except for the flutter of her blue skirt against the wind.    
   
I watched, as still as the cliffs themselves, as her back rose and then sank with her last breath. The sea continued to lap at the shore, indifferent to the tragedy that had unfolded only feet away. The sun dipped lower, its light waning, as if to mourn the day that had witnessed the loss of one so young.    
   
I remained for a while at my post, a sentinel of sorrow. But curiosity to know the full weight of my actions came over me and I climbed down to the beach and stood at her side. Mercifully, her face was buried in the sand. Her arms were spread at her side and the hem of her dress still fluttered in the breeze.  I touched her bare thigh. It was smooth and beautiful. I knelt there until the sun disappeared behind the bluffs where I’d been stationed. Her body was cold.