Battlefield

Part Four- Are We There Yet- Journal 9.7

Cat woke to the sound of screams pounding in her mind. A tornado of jagged memories that came with the sensation of sliced hair scattered across the bathroom floor. As consciousness arrived, she shook her head to brush off the demons dancing in her brain, sat up, and scratched the stubble on the back of her neck. Instinct led her to touch her once long, flowing hair. Each time she woke, with every revelation that it was gone, Cat felt an eerie sense of calm. The absence of her hair, once a crown of pride, reminded her of why she had cut it: to mark her escape from a past life shadowed by oppression and dread. The screaming in her nightmares echoed the relentless control her soldier husband had imposed, transforming her lovely Level Three home into a battleground. By shaving all her beautiful golden locks away, Cat reclaimed control over her life, shedding layers of imposed identity and the nation’s expectations. It was more than just a mere fashion choice; it was a desperate act of self-preservation and an assertion of her agency in an unforgiving world. If the hair was still gone, that meant she was still here, still standing. Even so, its absence served as a reminder of the burning flames of hell she’d escaped.

She rose in silence, swung her legs over the bed, and braced for another day in Level One. Here, she had only one life to spend, unlike the soldiers. The urge to crawl back under the covers tugged at her, but the promise of a morning cigarette won out. Cat slipped into her worn gray slippers, wrapped herself in a lavender robe, and grabbed the tattered cigarette box from the foyer table. Her keys jingled softly as she opened the front door of her quiet house. Leaning against the porch wall, she struck a match from a small yellow box, craving the flame as if it were breath itself.

She remembered life before cigarettes, when breathing felt lighter, before Level Three changed everything. Now, she drew fire and poison into her lungs. She found a strange kinship in the tar-laced smoke curling inside her. The darkness matched the smoldering embers of her spirit, a shadow that had settled long before her first drag. The ritual was a small act of self-ruin, but for now, it was the only thing that fit.

“Morning, Cat!” Her neighbor, Sheryl, called out from her own porch.

Cat lifted her pale face, meeting Sheryl’s gaze with a steady glare. Nightmares still prickled the back of her neck. The smoke in her lungs was too fresh. It was just too damned early for neighborly chatter. Sheryl’s chipper calls grated on Cat, yet she couldn’t help but envy Sheryl’s boundless energy. To be bored, she thought, must be the sweetest luxury.

“You know, hun, it’s really good to have you back here in One. Been a few months now. Maybe one of these days you’ll come join me and the gals for an afternoon coffee? Take a break from those smokes here and there?” Her eyes were begging Cat for a semblance of positivity.

Cat lowered her gaze to the barren grounds, eyes hollow. She forced a smile as believable as carob for chocolate. “I can’t today, but maybe next time.”

Sheryl’s expression faded into a slight grimace as she nodded in response. “Yeah. Ok. Maybe next time.” She inhaled deeply and clutched her rose colored mug of coffee to her chest. “You’re invited anytime, Cat.” Then she got up from her porch swing and turned towards the front door.

Cat blew out another puff of smoke quickly. “Hey, Sheryl!” She called out.

The neighbor looked over her shoulder.

“Thanks for inviting me.”

Sheryl’s cheeks flushed pink as she smiled warmly before nodding again and heading back inside. Cat finished her morning cigarette and then headed inside for her own cup of coffee.

Sitting alone at her kitchen table, she thought about her life in Level One. The lowest tier in the system, known for limited opportunities and stark survival conditions, offered few comforts. Each day brought its own challenges. Cat managed her own safety and carefully rationed her resources. The insecure nature of Level One life was a constant reminder of how delicate her life was on any level. For now, she would stay in One, maybe even forever. Acceptance came hard, but she faced the harsh truth: her hopes of reaching Level Three were now distant dreams, crushed and lifeless as she should have been.

The Level system, created centuries ago, shaped society into three tiers: Level One for single, unprotected civilians like Cat. Level Two was awarded to those with access to resources through unbound partnerships with soldiers. And at Level Three, wives were awarded marriage to a soldier, enjoying the system’s greatest resources. The system, supposedly designed to reward those defending the nation, dictated everything: access to food, career opportunities, and even social circles. In Level One, Cat often saw food rationing that favored women linked to soldiers, forcing others like her to scavenge. Meanwhile, Level Three offered not just status but the illusion of safety and purpose, a dream Cat once cherished. It had been her ultimate prize, promising success and recognition. However, in some twisted bend of fate, she had been the one to reject her life among the stars in Level Three. So, what now?

Cat winced at the bite of her freshly brewed coffee, as she drifted into a far-off memory; the day her mother explained the great game. “In this land, my dear Catherine,” her mother began, “everyone is trained for combat.” Seven-year-old Catherine strode hand in hand with her Level Three mother in the golden meadows on a cool autumn afternoon. “We owe our safety to the nation’s impenetrable defense team.”

“So I’m going to be a soldier someday and fight bad guys?” young Cat asked, tugging on her mother’s sleeve.

Her mother shook her head, suppressing a chuckle. “No. No. The men become soldiers. That’s why they have three lives. You’ll become a wife, support him, and bring new soldiers and wives into the world.”

“Do I get three lives too?” Cat’s eyes widened with curiosity.

Her mother sighed. “No, sweet girl. But you don’t need them. Soldiers have more dangerous jobs.”

Cat frowned. “Why are their jobs more dangerous?”

“Well...Sometimes bad soldiers will try to hurt the wives, so we need good soldiers to protect us.”

“Do the bad soldiers ever hurt the wives anyway?”

Her mother paused. “Sometimes, unfortunately. That’s why good soldiers are so important.”

Young Catherine’s face twisted in confusion. “If the wives get hurt too, don’t they need the three lives more?”

Her mother looked down, seeing the curiosity in her daughter’s eyes. “It’s a partnership, darling. That’s why Level Three is such an imperative goal for us.”

“What’s Level Three?” Cat asked.

“At Level One, you’re single, managing your own safety. At Level Two, you share resources with a soldier but remain unbound. Level Three is where you become a wife, fully united with your soldier, sharing resources, and building a life together.”

Cat’s mother’s words echoed in her mind as she slammed her mug onto the dining room table alone. Time for another smoke. Maybe a walk this time, too.

By mid-afternoon, Cat had drifted miles from home. One hand clutched her thick sweater, the other cradled a burning cigarette. The battlefield path stretched out, empty and cold, its desolation by design. In Level One, bleakness was a tool meant to push women into higher levels. Levels be damned, Cat knew soldiers weren’t the only ones who fell. Loss came to all, no matter where they stood on the battlefield. Still, she found comfort in Level One. Even the gray mist, wetting her red nose, was honest. She would take this barren truth over the illusion of blooming green fields any day.

“Back again?” The strained voice of another woman called out from behind.

“Hey Colie,” Cat smirked over her shoulder as she spotted the older woman walking behind her, short white spikey hair with blue frosted tips atop her wrinkled face.

“I don’t think anyone wanders these fields as much as you do.” Colie continued holding her hand out towards Cat.

Cat chuckled to herself, then pulled the ragged box of cigarettes from her pocket, slipped one out, and promptly slapped it down into Colie’s open palm. “Light?” Cat asked with raised eyebrows.

Colie just shook her head. “No. Thanks. I got one.” Then Colie pulled her midnight black zippo out of her pocket and flicked it open with the slice of the metal, igniting a small orange flame.

The snap of metal jolted something deep inside Cat, sending shivers racing down her spine. Her breath locked into place, and her chest tightened until she forced air into her lungs. A prickling numbness crept over her fingers, anchoring her in a sudden storm of memories—a raw reminder of the wounds that still burned beneath her skin.

“Sorry,” Colie grunted through her lips pressed around the filter of her fresh cigarette.

“It’s alright,” Cat assured her, attempting to shake off the sudden chill.

“Why are you out here again?”

Cat shrugged. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Huh. Touche,” Colie answered, letting a puff of smoke out from her thin, worn lips.

“Neighbor tried to invite me to coffee again.” Cat exhaled.

“You’re the only nicotine addict who doesn’t like caffeine?”

“No.” Cat chuckled, stamping out her own cigarette while reaching for a replacement.” It’s just that I know how it’ll go. Why did you leave? Why didn’t you leave? Don’t you just love everything back in Level One? It’s just stupid.”

Medals clinked softly in Colie’s pocket—tokens from hard-won battles and empathy earned along the way. Not many knew her story: she’d once been a feared strategist in Level Three, respected for both brilliance and nerve. Those years left heavier burdens than any shiny trinket—decisions, sacrifices, and haunting memories. She carried those ghosts quietly now, just like Cat.

Colie looked at Cat hard. “You don’t know it’s gonna be like that. That’s you making an assumption about them.”

“It’s always like that.”

“You know…it might be nice to trade these grave walks for a little smiling and laughter just to shake things up or something. Maybe think about it.”

“They don’t care. They’re all the same. They think soldiers are the only ones who die. They don’t care about the others. They wouldn’t have cared about me.”

“Well… I don’t think they’d have invited you to coffee if they didn’t care about you.”

“You’re one to talk. When’s the last time you saw any real friends besides me out here?”

“Honey, I’m old as sin. Most of my friends are dead.”

“Yeah? Well, I should be dead too.”

“Maybe that’s why your annoying neighbor wants you to come to coffee.”

Cat looked up from the glowing end of her cigarette to stare at Colie with squinting eyes.

“Maybe they’re glad you’re not dead. Just food for thought, honey.”

Cat shrugged and gave a half-whispered response. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Hey, I’m headed the other way, but thanks for the drag, and think about that coffee, you know, whenever you’re ready.”

Cat gave a curt nod and a small salute with her palm as she turned along the path away from Colie. Breathing in the smoke and staring out onto the barren grounds of the battlefield, she remembered the old days of Level One, when she dreamed of being a Level Three someday. She remembered the day she met the soldier who asked her to be his for Level Two. The aroma of dank sweat from their ‘training sessions’ came rushing back, and she could almost feel the sting of cold metal beneath her hands as he barked muted orders. She remembered the resources they shared, how her own supplies dwindled while his remained abundant. But it felt like it was worth it at the time. His three lives were her protection. She needed him, so it made sense for her to contribute more.

But Level Three, the supposed pinnacle, became Cat’s undoing. No one warns little girls that a good soldier can turn predator, hunting the very wife he vowed to protect. With only one life to give, what could she do? That was when the screams began, the agony, the lies he spun to friends and family about ‘training.’ His commands still echoed in her mind, shaping her thoughts, forcing her to perform a version of herself that was never real. The battle between who she was and who she had to be gnawed at her, guilt and fear twisted in one nauseating cocktail. Why hadn’t she seen the danger sooner? Why had she survived when others hadn’t?

She remembered the night, stumbling through darkness, heart hammering, his voice chasing her through the trees. The forest around Level Three became a maze of terror, every sound a threat. Her escape was a blur of panic and raw will to simply survive.

A sharp wind stung her face, and the scent of gun oil sliced through the air, yanking Cat from her physical body. In an instant, she was back in the chaos—the smoke coiling around her like a python. Screams thundered in her mind, phantom shrapnel cut across her skin. His dominance pressed down hard, venomous, and relentless. The wasteland around her mirrored the hollow ache inside. Fighting the sinister waves of memory, Cat dug her toes into her socks, anchoring herself in her body and inching back from the brink of the past.

But she kept walking, kept moving, and kept breathing. It was the only thing she knew. It was the only thing she knew how to live for though Cat knew she was indeed lucky to be alive. After she fled to Level One, she learned so much about the violence against the women of this world, and she couldn’t believe it wasn’t a matter of national concern.

Over one third of all wife homicides were at the hands of their own soldiers. There were far more wives who didn’t have the chance to run to Level One as Cat did. There were so many of them buried below the surface of the very ground she walked on. And yet, nobody seemed to care but Cat. All the deaths could be explained, and the nation’s rules remained unchallenged. There were rules after all, outlawing the behavior of bad soldiers, but with those extra lives, they always knew they had the upper hand.

How were wives supposed to defend themselves? What chance did they ever have? Some women would armor themselves in skill and resources. To protect themselves, women had to be the best soldiers. They had to acquire their own possessions, and it was difficult to do so with only one life to live. This is why it was so much easier to graduate the levels and share resources with a three-level soldier.

Many women didn’t have the resources Cat had acquired, and many of those same women lay several feet below these grounds. For a fleeting moment, a wish drifted through her mind: perhaps she should have remained in Level Three, embraced the illusion of safety and purpose. The thought was sharply cut down by the reality of what Level Three truly was. How could she have been so stupid? Why did she live, while greater wives than she had died? The thought was too great to bear.

When she arrived back at the house, Cat collapsed into her bed. The thoughts, feelings, and memories swirling through every aspect of her being had drained her of all the energy in her body by the early afternoon. And so she let herself drift into a deep sleep.

CATHERINE! CATHERINE! OPEN THE DOOR! The banging on the door was deafening, each hit reverberating in her bones like the metallic click of Colie’s lighter. BANG BANG BANG. The echoes intertwined with the nightmares, merging past and present as the room grew smaller and smaller, plunging Cat into darkness, shaking and crying. She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling only the cold bed beneath her feet. CATHERINE, YOU FUCKING BITCH OPEN THE DOOR! Her soldier’s voice pierced through the noise, and Cat jolted awake, sweat-drenched and trembling.

Panting, sweating, and heart fluttering like a captured bird, Cat was struck awake. She looked wide-eyed around the dark, vacant bedroom. It was just a dream. It was just a dream. She reached for the back of her neck once more. No hair. It was still real. She was still real. It was all still real.

Cat tapped her fingertips to her collarbone and attempted to slow her breathing with intentional gasps in and out until the air in her lungs finally steadied to a normal flow. Then she looked over to the digital clock on the bedside table. It was 3:07 AM. Great. She had slept through the afternoon again, with no hope of ever getting back to sleep tonight. So, she did what she always did when she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Cat pulled on her coat, grabbed her cigarettes, and slipped outside into the pre-dawn darkness. The world was quiet, except for the soft crunch of her slippers against the gravel and the distant huff of her own breath. She walked past the edge of her yard, letting the cold air sting her cheeks, and soon found herself on the old battlefield path once more.

As Cat wandered further, shapes began to emerge in the half-light—wisps, half-formed figures drifting through the mist. At first, she thought they were tricks of her tired mind. But then, one, in the shape of a woman with a green scarf draped over glowing, tumbling tresses of hair, turned and met Cat’s wide-eyed gaze. The ghost’s eyes were hollow, yet somehow warm and she had red glowing marks all the way around her neck.

The woman nodded in recognition. “You’re walking, too.” Her voice sounded both near and impossibly far. Cat felt her tongue disappear in her own mouth, but somehow she kept drifting closer. Soon, more figures formed: women. They were all women of all ages, their wounds inside and outside, somehow sparkling bright. Some walked with limps, some held invisible children, some stared out towards the battlefield, as if still waiting for someone to come home. These apparitions, with their shimmering glow, made Cat feel like the darkness among the dead. Were they mirrors of real lives, the spirits of those who had suffered like her, or merely manifestations of her own insanity?

Yet, with their presence, there was an undeniable sense of unity. As she floated among them, she noticed something even more jarring than the sight of ghosts themselves; the women began to hum a gentle, harmonious lullaby, a melody that seemed to weave through the air, binding them together in an unspoken promise of hope.

The sound fueled breath into Cat’s tired lungs, as if the sun were rising within her own heart. She tried to speak, to ask their names, but the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she walked among them, feeling the ache and the strange comfort of being seen by those who truly understood. Then, without thinking, Cat started humming too, a song her mind did not know, but that her heart easily beat like a drum to the melody.

One small girl reached up and took Cat’s hand. Her touch was icy, yet gentle. “We walk to remember,” she whispered. “Then we walk to forget.”

Cat squeezed the girl’s hand, her cigarette burning down in the other, forgotten. She walked on, surrounded by ghosts, no longer alone as dawn crept gray and uncertain over the battlefield. The child met Cat’s gaze again as she looked up and asked, “Do you think anyone else will ever know our path?” In that moment, a quiet certainty bloomed inside Cat. One day, their steps would be seen, each one honoring the stories and lives that should have been. With this silent promise, Cat knew every step mattered, keeping memory alive and giving voice to those women who were silenced.