Killed In Action

• Jenna Denholm, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2018

My hands trembled as I took the telegram from the messenger boy. I nodded as a sign of thanks. He tipped his hat politely and hastily ran off. My heart began pounding like a drum. They only left when they were delivering bad news.
I carefully opened the envelope and haltingly pulled out the letter. My eyes could barely focus on the page, I was shaking so, but I forced them to read the neatly printed letters.
MRS. MARGARET ROSEBUSH
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT PRIVATE THOMAS ROSEBUSH INFANTRY IS OFFICIALLY REPORTED AS KILLED IN ACTION JULY NINTH
Killed in action.
I felt the telegram slowly slip from my fingers and waveringly drift to the floor. The world around me seemed to pause, allowing me to bask in the numbness which consumed my whole body. I was hardly aware of anything going on around me, so lost was I in my own thoughts and emotions. The room spun, trying to knock me over. I swayed, but refused to give in. Tears stung my eyes, but I wasn’t crying. Not yet.
Killed in action.
He was gone. Never again would I hear his booming laugh. Never again would I feel his gentle hands caress my face as he told me that everything would be okay. Never again would I see his cocky smile light up his sky-blue eyes. Never again would I run to him and he would take me in his arms and spin me around, all the while telling me that he loved me and that I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Killed in action.
Suddenly, my sadness turned to anger. I had never wanted him to go to the war! I had told him that it was dangerous and that he could find an adventure elsewhere, but he had just smiled in that smug way of his and said, “Come now, Maggie; I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone.” Well, he wasn’t back yet and I knew that he was gone. He was gone and had left me here on my own! Was I to raise our daughter by myself?
Killed in action.
My anger subsided just as quickly as it had bubbled up. I allowed the tears to escape my eyes and cascade down my cheeks. Our daughter would never know her father. Thomas would never know her. I wondered if he had even received my last letter, telling of her birth. Perhaps it had been in his hands when he was killed, his fingers beginning to unfold the paper. Why had I folded it?
Killed in action.
How could I go on without him? He was my one safe place in the world. I couldn’t do it! No. No, I mustn’t allow myself to think like that. I had to go on. For our daughter. For Thomas. I had to go on. I said it out loud with finality to convince myself of its factuality,
“Life will go on.”