text: Trigger warning: suicide missions I first saw someone get killed when I was six. I was young enough to not know the reason why, but old enough to know that I shouldn’t ask. When the Japanese soldier burst into our straw-roofed cottage, I felt fear that I had never experienced before, of being killed - or worse, taken alive - by this stone-faced man in his khaki uniform with hands that belonged to a giant. I didn’t see the beating - I hid in a small wooden cabinet - but I could hear the lashing of the whip and the scream that ensued, over and over again, penetrating into my blocked ears. I crawled out gingerly when the sound abruptly ended, but then I was met with the sight of the soldier dragging a limp and bloody man out of the cottage. I caught sight of the soldier’s face for a second and was bristled to the bones by the grim ecstasy in his eyes. And yet the horror ensued - the man was tied up to the great apple tree that shaded our cottage, and the soldier stood ground about twenty metres away. The soldier raised the rifle and aimed. The shot rang out throughout the entire village, and the crows on the apple tree shrieked and glided upwards. The soldier aimed again. I finally looked away, and shook when the second shot pierced the air. This man, whose blood stained the apple tree and cursed it from bearing any more fruit, was my father, and the sole reason behind every bullet I shot, and the reason why I accepted this task - which I knew would be the last thing I do for the country, and its people, and my father. The task was simple and fatal. Go in, kill as many Japanese as you can, and blow yourself up. Even as a freedom worker, there were better and nobler ways to go. Death - I had come dangerously close to it many times in my years in the Independence Movement. Yet when I barely made it out alive, I was never as shocked or shaken as the others. And yet, as my cold and clammy hands held tight onto the steering wheel, I could feel my legs visibly shaking. A novel feeling of a constricting pressure rose up my chest and tightened my throat. Maybe it was the fact that it was voluntary - that I was willingly laying my life down. Our car stumbled along the crudely-paved dirt road that rose and fell with the curve of the hills. The biting wind rattled the flimsy window and sliced painfully through my double-layered clothing. The sky was bleached into a kind of sickly grey, like a dreary blanket weighing down onto the barren landscape that seemed to stretch forever. Only the setting sun broke this monotonous sight, dyeing the western horizon red. Next to me was Ji, a light-hearted yet painfully blunt man who was lost in an uncharacteristic silence. His roughly-cut shoulder length hair whipped against his dark skin that stretched over his bones, showing every mark of poverty and deprivation. His eyes had a glint of sorrowful madness to them, evoking a sense of both fear and pity. I didn’t know him very well, and I wasn’t trying to know him better - I saw no need, as we were going to die today anyway. Our destination shimmered into view like a mirage, a military factory that supplied the guns that were used to shoot us and tanks that were used to trample over our homes. The building itself was largely obscured by birch trees of deathly pallor, and the only thing that signified its existence was the thick, steady column of smoke that rose and dispersed into the sky. “Stop here,” Ji said. “They can’t see us from here.” I turned the car into the obscurity of the forest and slowed it to a stop. “How many’ve you got left?” Ji said tiredly. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I counted, and said, “Two.” Ji chuckled. “Yeah?” I slid one between my lips and gave him the other. Ji pulled out his lighter and cupped his hands around his mouth. When his was lit, Ji handed me the lighter and said, “Check the back.” I sighed, then got out and around to the trunk. As I lit the cigarette, I opened the rusty trunk with my other hand. It was empty except for a brown suitcase, with peeling leather covering. I gently took it out and brought it back into the car. Ji held out his hands, and I gave him the suitcase. He laid it on his lap and clicked it open, revealing three round objects with irregular grooves on its sides. I eyed the factory out in the distance. It was basically a set of large warehouses, which the Imperial Army had claimed for themselves after driving out its inhabitants. Tiny worker ants crawled around the buildings, working in a predetermined pattern, silently, thoughtlessly, but effectively. The graffiti and filth that had dirtied the walls had been wiped clean and replaced by a huge flag of the rising sun. “Should we go?” Ji said. “Wait,” I said. “Let me enjoy my last minutes a little longer.” “Mm.” A cold silence passed over us, until Ji seemed to revert to his normal ebullient manner. “How did you end up here, anyway? You know, in all this. The Independence Movement.” The lump in my throat seemed to snake further upwards. I composed myself, and said, “It’s the usual story. My father was killed.” “Oh, by your father, you mean Tae? I’ve heard of him. Most men in the Movement have. Well, most men have heard of you as well. I heard all about you at Kimhae. Everyone talks about you. Not in a bad way, of course. They’re always praising you, for how you fought out of that dreadful place all by yourself. Really, I always wanted a chance to meet you. It’s an honour, to be able to meet you.” “Most of the things they say aren’t true,” I said coldly. “It’s all propaganda. I only survived at Kimhae because of the men who gave their lives for me. I had to step over the corpses of my comrades to get out alive. Don’t believe everything they tell you. I’m not the hero they say I am.” “But surely you have enormous courage just to lay down your life like this?” “Aren’t you doing the same?” I asked. “Well, I have no choice, really. I’m going to die anyway.” “Why’s that?” “You haven’t heard?” Ji asked. “About me? They made quite a fuss about it. Well, I guess I deserve it. I, well, they took my sister and mother. The soldiers, I mean. And you know what they’ll do with them. I couldn’t bear it. My sister had just gotten married. I just couldn’t let that happen. So I gave them what they wanted - the document the Movement entrusted me with. I don’t know what’s inside, never opened it, was told not to. But in any case, it wasn’t as important as saving my family, you know? But then turns out it was really important to the Movement. They told me that if I don’t take part in this, they’ll have my head.” He then seemed to survey my expression. “You’re not angry, right?” “No, I’m not,” I said truthfully. Somehow, seeing the flaws in others filled me with some kind of guilty pleasure, as if the imperfection of another could somehow exalt me. And once again, silence, as we sat, lost in thought. The uneasiness grew until I couldn’t stand it anymore. My hand reached into my pocket and found the cool comfort of the revolver. It travelled further and found the grip of a knife. When I pulled it out, Ji turned, transfixed by the sharp glint of the blade in the setting sun. He watched in silence as I held it to the ring finger of my left hand. Closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, I sliced downwards. I let out a stifled cry. When I opened my eyes again, my hand was a bloody mess with crimson streams running down my palm. Ji coughed uncomfortably as I examined the remaining half of my finger. “Damn it, then.” Ji said, and took the knife from him. With a sharp intake of breath, he cut off the top of his finger. Steadying my heavy breathing, I closed my eyes and said, “Let’s go.” Ji nodded. I started the car again and manoeuvred expertly through the densely-spaced trees. Soon we broke into a clearing, and the factory loomed high over us. As we grew closer, I could hear the workers shout and form a crowd. I gritted my teeth and pushed hard down the accelerator. Soon we were in shooting range. I could hear a warning shot from my left, but I didn’t turn to look. The crowd sensed the danger now and dispersed hastily, yelling and shouting. Ji shouted something, but I couldn’t hear him from the blood thudding in my ears. I swerved the car away dangerously close to one of the buildings. A sharp shot pierced my concentration, and I saw that Ji had already pulled out his gun. “Get off!” Ji yelled. I opened the door and rolled off the car. I stood up and briefly surveyed the chaos we had caused. As I raised my arm, my fingers found the comfortable groove of the trigger, and I began firing with hysteric fervour. Each shot rocked my shoulders, and was met with a scream. I saw Ji darting into one of the buildings, using the suitcase as a shield and shooting manically. But in that momentary distraction, a shot rang out from behind and pain erupted from my shoulders. I screamed and turned with my gun raised, and fired. The bullet found its mark, and a young officer crumpled onto the pavement. I stepped closer, and to my dull shock, I saw that the officer was barely of age. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. The passion of his youth was still bright in his eyes, but fading. He weakly raised his revolver but I kicked it away from his hand. My eyes locked onto his, both burning with ineffable hatred. Then, the boy’s eyes gave away to a meek despair, disgusting me. As I raised my gun again, I remembered the soldier aiming at my father tied on the apple tree. Had he hesitated? No. He was used to killing. Every murder was forgotten and buried into a deep, apathetic part of his brain. Wasn’t I the same? I fired again, and my heart fluttered with an unspeakable euphoria. The power of hurting and destroying the powerless filled me with a kind of dreadful exuberance that was utterly inhuman. As if the last strand of my humanity had disappeared with my ring finger. As if this lifelong struggle for this country, which was neither moral nor wicked, had only left me with days drowning with guilt and nights thieved of sleep, and now it would end with a final gift, the awakening of a horrid monster within me. As I watched the boy writhe in pain and finally succumb to the darkness, the sincerest part of my soul was glad that this was my final day. I heard the distant thudding of footsteps, and turned. The gun dropped from my hand, and I faced the incoming group of soldiers. They stopped, and raised their rifles. The soldier in front shouted, and the first volley was fired. As I fell, I saw the hideous grin of the officer that killed my father, the monster that haunted my dreams from the age of six. My own mouth contorted into that same grin, and I fell to the ground next to the corpse of the boy. And in that last moment, all I saw was the flag of the rising sun looming before me. Then, suddenly, it burst into a maelstrom of fire. I embraced death with open arms.