The Life of Timothy by Julian Holubec

As I stood atop the lookout tower, waves of enemy soldiers were crashing down from all sides. Deep down, I knew I was not getting out of this one alive. My general has taken far too deep into their territory, yet we follow him with unyielding fervor. Although the enemy outnumbers us five to one, we still owe it to him to try to come out on top. 

“It’s not looking good sir!” I shouted down the ladder, hoping at least one of his lieutenants would hear my remark. As I climb back up the ladder, a flood of memories come rushing through me. Growing up, I had no one but my mother to raise me and my five brothers. We were poor, and I had been working since I was young. One day, I found some money on the side of the street. It looked too good to be true, yet I took it. The next second, two police officers

from behind the tree started chasing and beating me. They took me in, and they gave me a choice.

Either join the military, or fine my mother 10,000 dollars. I had to join the military. One day, I hope to return when this brutal war ends.

I opened my eyes on top of the lookout, and not 20 feet away was a missile rapidly approaching the foundation.

*** 

Although I do not remember the day I was born, my mother had described it to me in great detail, like it was some sort of entertaining play. It took place in my old home, a tattered hut on the outskirts of the New Gothic Empire, the nation I would eventually die for. The plywood floor, the stucco-painted sides, and the secondhand furniture all gave the place a derelict sort of charm. My favorite detail however was the ramshackled ceiling/roof. It was constantly breaking and always in need of repair, leading to a medley of building materials all combined into a glorious symphony of roofness. This was true, so much so in fact that growing up we used to call it Frankenstein’s roof. 

Apparently, some of my extended family was also present. Aunt Tricia, who is a nurse, was delivering the baby. Her husband Bill was a welder by trade, but had a real soft side to him as well. When I was born, he bawled in happiness to the point where Aunt Tricia stopped checking on my mom and instead went to Bill for a few seconds to make sure he was okay. 

Three of my five brothers were there as well, Dylan, Tanner, and Tylker. Dylan is the oldest, and he was about six years old. Tanner was five, and Tyler two. Dylan was already helping dad out with his construction job, getting the nickname fourman. When Tyler and Tanner turned six, they were also expected to show up on the job. That’s why my birth was so important

to my family. Not just because I was a new child, but because of the hope that was brought upon everybody in that room when my first cry rang throughout that hallowed shack. I was named Timothy Jr, after my father of course. 

The celebration went all night long and throughout the next day. More of my extended family who lived in the kingdom came for a visit, and apparently I shook more hands that day than I ever would for the rest of my life. 

On my sixth birthday is when everything changed. Gone were the days of me sitting in the house and doing chores inside, as it was time to join dad on the job. After the recent border skirmishes between the New Gothic Kingdoms and the Germanic Empire to the west, our town was in a complete disarray. Buildings stood with holes through them like some sort of mite chewed through the brick, and some were reduced to piles of rubble local kids would build forts in. Our people are not known for our weakness, and war is seen as a constant force that permeates all life rather than a cancer to be cut or an issue to avoid. Just like one of those kids, I didn’t see war as anything strange either. I knew one day I would have to join the military. 

We arrived at the jobsite, and this library was an absolute mess .Ashes covered the ground like a sheet of white snow, and all that remained was the statue to our god, Mars. He takes after the Roman god of war, and he is the only deity that has survived since the old days in this harsh land. My father finally received his orders, and now it was our turn to fix this place. 

“Clear those ashes like your life depends on them! I don’t want to see a single flake in three days. You think you can do that boys?” Father asked. 

“When do we start?” I excitedly asked. My three older brothers audibly sighed in the background, and this seemed to annoy dad.

“You boys better take this seriously. If we don’t get this job done asap, none of us are eating on Sunday. We get paid extra if this place is cleaned up in a jiff, so why don’t you boys hurry your asses to the nearest shovels and get to fucking work?” 

Dylan, knowing what this raised voice implies, raced for the shovels stored in the tool tent. Tyler, Tanner, and I followed suit, nearly catching up to them. When we got there, however, there were only three shovels left. 

“That’s my shovel, Timothy! You’d be lucky to even get a rake!” Tanner jeered. They all raced off to try to meet quota, and I was met with a tool shed more barren than the streets of the cities hit by the heaviest fighting. Left to my own devices, I scanned the site for a remaining shovel. There! It was lying by a 15 year old looking kid, but he wasn’t using it and I needed it. I timidly approached him and asked: 

“M-may I p-pl-please have your shovel?” 

A bright red pain seared through my face as his calloused hand slapped the daylights out of me. “Get your own fucking shovel boy! I don’t have time for this bullshit.” 

I ran away, crying for the rest of the day. 

We got home, and we were about to eat dinner. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse, I started becoming thoroughly interrogated for my lack of work. “What were you doing out there all day?” My father asked. “JI hope it wasn’t nothing, or else we would have a real problem.” 

The indescribable amount of shame this action brought me could fill up our entirely rickety shack. 

“I-I…” 

“Spit it out, boy!”

“There was no shovel, so I couldn’t dig.” 

“Damn boy, if there is no shovel, use your friggin hands, or teeth if you have to. Matter of fact, give your food to the boys who actually worked hard and did the job today. You don’t deserve a single scrap.” 

My brothers scrambled towards my food so fast that the plastic table nearly began to fold under their weight. 

Later that night, my mother asked me to step outside. We went by the old oak trees which have watched over our shack since its inception. I was expecting the worst, but I was met with a surprisingly warm response. 

“Here, have some food, son. Everyone deserves a reward for their big day.” Out came a stale piece of bread, yet I gulped it down instantly. 

“Go to bed, son. You have a big day tomorrow. You’ll earn dad’s respect by working hard, so try your best honey, alright?” 

It was my 16th birthday, the day I was required to join the East Gothic Military. Border skirmishes started to occur frequently once again, and all men in our village were called to serve. Years of working at this point have turned me into an ox, and I was 6’3 in stature. My family was one of the first groups to be drafted. My brothers and I all headed to the front lines for the first time. I wasn’t there for something to prove (as most in my nation were), but I need to provide for my mom and not get fined. Who knows? If I do well enough out there, I can earn some of that expected glory. 

The caravan ride was full of other kids from our town. Excited conversations of the joy of war were taking place the entire ride, yet I hadn’t uttered a single word. I was stationed in a

lookout unit, near the front lines of the war. I climbed to the top: A scream of desperation, but my mother was never fined.