Claire Kim of Seoul, South Korea
Claire Kim is a sophomore at Seoul International School (SIS), but she and her younger brother Kyle spend their summers in Toronto. Her interests include tennis, debate, and her favourite pastime, writing. Claire was inspired to write her first short story after reading Alice Munro’s poignant collection, Too Much Happiness.
Second place winner in Youth Category
Stationed at Home
There is something calming about a hot cup of Kashmiri Kahwa tea. Cultivated in the North Indian plains, the green tea leaves are boiled with saffron strands and cinnamon bark to add a sweet aroma. Aaron, my husband, was the first person to introduce me to it. This was five years ago when we first met, in a small cafe located in the quiet outskirts of Kabul, Afghanistan.
I was there on assignment with a small group of colleagues from the newspaper; he was there as a marine. Little did I know that the stranger who offered me Kahwa tea at the cafe would become the love of my life. We kept in touch while he was in Afghanistan via email, but at that point, we were nothing more than close friends. However, once he returned home to DC, which coincidentally was where I was attending law school, we became inseparable. He and I would spend every waking moment together. While I sat at the desk studying for my finals, he sat on the couch working on his songs. Apart from training in the military, he spent his time as a songwriter, occasionally releasing records and performing gigs at local music festivals. I swear, on nights when he finished new songs, he didn’t have his nightmares.
The day I graduated was also the day I got married. It was a small ceremony with only our closest family and friends. More than anything, we tried to keep it simple. We didn’t pay much attention to the reception frills, but made sure that the main beverage for toasts was Kashmiri Kahwa tea.
Sitting on a wooden stool, taking slow sips from my mug, I reminisced about the past, our past. Next to the stool was a framed picture of us on our wedding day. I thought about how I was the luckiest girl in the world, because I was married to the most selfless guy I had ever met.
Just as I got caught up in my reverie, I heard the front door lock click open. It was Aaron. Like a child that ran to greet a father who had just returned from a year-long business trip, I raced to the front door to see him. He usually smiled and gave me a big bear hug when I did this, but today was different. He walked past me and placed his duffle bag on the counter. His face was glum. I was almost too scared to ask him why he wasn’t in a good mood. Almost.
“They’re sending me to Afghanistan tomorrow,” he explained.
“Who is? What for?” But I already knew the answers to these questions. Afghanistan had been a happy place for us; it was the place that brought us together. The idea of him going back to fight in a war wasn’t so happy anymore.
For what felt like ten years, neither of us made a single noise or a single move. Finally, he stood up and walked into his music studio, the one place in the house I wasn’t allowed to enter. He came back out holding an unlabeled CD.
“It’s a collection of songs I wrote specifically for you. I knew this would happen at some point in time, so I prepared beforehand.”
I stopped him. I knew exactly where he was going with that sentence.
By the time I ran out of tears, the sun was already rising, peeking through the trees. When I gathered the strength to get up, Aaron took the CD back from me. He said, “I want you to listen to this only if I don’t return. In fact, let’s put it in a safe place you will be able to remember. How about underneath that loose floorboard near the front door? Perfect.”
Without objection, I followed him to the foyer. Using his foot, he lodged the floorboard loose and placed the CD under it. I made a wish that I would never have to lift that floorboard.
That was four months ago. 120 days, 2880 hours, 172800 minutes, 10368000 seconds.
As a military wife, I knew the scariest sound you can hear is the doorbell.
“Hello?” I greeted the two uniformed men at my door.
The taller man with the two stars on his lapel stepped forward. “Ma’am, I’m Major
General Richardson, and this is Major Jones. May we come inside?”
Mouth agape, I neither shook my head nor nodded. The men exchanged a labored glance then simultaneously exhaled.
“We regret to inform you that your husband, Officer Aaron Banks, was killed in action last night. We are very sorry for your loss.”
I shut the door, as if it could block the news.
I had read many stories about people who had gone mad because they lost their loved ones, but I wasn’t about to become one of them. I was hurt, but I had better self control.
I had to cool down, so after an hour, I stepped outside and got into my car. I passed a couple picking out a new house and thought about the future I had envisioned for my life with Aaron.
I had started to cool off when I saw a soldier running across the street to greet his wife and three little kids after having been deployed for over a year. In a neighborhood of military families, we all oscillated between exuberance and despondency. We all got through the day by holding our breath.
I don’t exactly know what happened next, but something deep inside me told me that I shouldn’t have to deal with this, that I should have the same right to happiness as everyone else. This soldier had just put the stench of Aaron’s death right under my nose.
It was spiteful. For some reason, I slammed on the accelerator as hard as I could and ran him over. Now his wife wouldn’t be happier than I was. I thought I would feel bad afterwards, but I didn’t. It gave me a strange new sense of energy and hope.
The world was meant to be equal.
And as if nothing had happened, I drove on, while my victim’s wife and children screamed for help. I was high on adrenaline for about thirty minutes, until I noticed that a fleet of police cars was following me. When I looked back, the lead officer motioned for me to pull over on the highway. What did I care that I was being arrested? So I got out of the car as the officer had ordered me to. The fleet swarmed me, encircling my white Honda Accord and ducked behind their open doors with guns drawn.
Finally, an officer approached me with caution and asked me to hold my hands over my head. I did as he asked, and he handcuffed me and sat me in his car. I was driven to the jailhouse and assigned an attorney.
I was given time to privately speak with my attorney. I refused. They insisted. I told them I was a lawyer and would represent myself. They scoffed. I’d show them.
The notoriety of my case brought international attention, so my arraignment was expedited lest someone off me behind bars before America could get its justice. On the day of my trial, as I walked into the courtroom, everyone turned to stare at me. Even when I stared back, they continued to squint their eyes at me. I realized that it was because I was a complete mess. My hair was so disheveled not even a comb would go through it, the eyeliner I had applied that morning was smudged down my cheeks, and my eyelids were so bloated from exhaustion that my vision was narrowed.
When it was my turn to do my defense, I rose and slowly walked towards the jury. I wanted them to understand that I had done nothing wrong, and that the soldier had deserved to die. I had my work cut out for me.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, love is a powerful force. I first met Aaron when I was working as a journalist in Afghanistan. He was there on duty as a member of the United States Marine Core. Our relationship started with something as simple as a cup of tea. After the first few minutes I spent with Aaron, I knew that he was the one that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. There was no logical reasoning behind it; I just knew that we were meant for each other. From that day on, I promised myself that I would always look out for him, and that I would make sure that no one could lay a hand on him. I loved him so much, which is why it was so difficult to let him go when he was deployed, again, to Afghanistan. Members of the jury, I can only hope that you never have to suffer this kind of loss at some point in your lives. I lost someone that was the closest to my heart, and I felt broken when he did not return. I had failed to protect him from the world. No, his fellow servicemen had failed to protect him. What angered me the most was the fact that Aaron could have been saved; that with proper leadership and intelligence, Aaron would be holding my hand, and that I would not be here trying to convince you that I acted only as any devastated wife would. But do you know what would be very wrong? Letting the person who is responsible for my husband’s death go free. That would be very wrong. You know what would be worse? Letting him reunite with his family in a way that Aaron could not. If you understand love, you should understand me. Love is what motivated me, and I’m not going to apologize for my actions, because all of you know that he deserved to die. He killed a beloved, innocent being. I wasn’t going to let him do that to anyone else ever again.”
Completely exhausted after giving that monologue, I collapsed in my seat. I saw tears in the eyes of multiple jury members, which was a good sign; I had won them over.
The judge cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mrs. Banks. Who is Aaron?”
I was utterly shocked. This entire case was about Aaron Banks, my husband. Shouldn’t the judge know who his own case is about? I expressed my disapproval: “Sir, what do you mean?”
The judge replied, “You were never married. There is no Aaron Banks.”