One Thousand Rose Petals.

By "Jackalope Girl."

One Thousand Rose Petals

I'm real good at killing people, and the whole country loves me for it. I jack into VR and I am my drone, gliding on military surveillance data above the Congo canopy, an angel of death screaming at mach 3. Target acquired reverberates through my wires and I stop, hover down, disappear into the understory. I creep, silicon silent, until facial recognition tells me yes, these are the terrorists. A missile flies from my starboard wing and boom, fire and blood; the child soldiers don't have time to scream before they explode into one thousand rose petals. Another day on the clock.

I take off my VR headset and I'm eye-level with Lieutenant Keller's broad shoulders, who tells me that firing the missile was a waste of American tax dollars, that I'm "way out of line, Josh Collins." I look up into his blue eyes, lean back like a big shot, and say "hey, I got the job done." I turn away and walk down the halls of Nellis AFB, all the other drone jockeys giving me high-fives.

On the drive home, some snot-nosed college activists are blocking the way off base. A sneering, septum-pierced lesbian yells into my window, "don't you feel anything about what you're doing?!" I just glare at her in the moment, and I chuckle about it once I'm finally out on the highway. No, I don't. Not a single thing.

Today, my sick desires are screaming at me louder than they have in weeks. When I see the pink package at my apartment doorstep, I give in and shove my rosary in my back pocket. A drone buzzes in my stomach as I take my box cutters to the tape and pull the contents out through the jungle of packing peanuts. It's the dress I ordered two weeks ago, vodka-drunk, horny, and ignoring the Jesus Christ that nags me in my mind. It's beautiful even in my man-hands, black lace and shimmering crimson sequins all over (one thousand rose petals), and I just have to try it on. At least for a few minutes. I hear my rosary go thud when I take off my slacks.

Two hours later, I'm at a bar in Vegas where all the girls call me Angelique. We sit around the table, drink cocktails, make sweeping gestures, and ignore each other's jawlines. They all compliment my dress. I'm telling a fake story about my job as a casino waitress when a man walks to our table, ending the conversation. My heart stops when I see Lieutenant Keller's Lake Tanganyika eyes looking straight at me. My eyes rest in the valley of skin where his wedding ring should be. He stares right through my makeup, smiles, and says, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Next thing I know we're at the bar and he's calling me Angelique too, listening to more of my casino stories. Now he tells me all about the high-tech startup he works for. I blush and smile. I notice the freckles all over his arms, red as his hair (one thousand rose petals). My hand brushes against his. He takes it, and as I let out a tiny gasp, he asks:

"Would you like to get away from this noise, come back to my place?"

In the morning, my hands reach through the undergrowth of Keller's bed and touch nothing but cold sheets. I take off my wig, wash the mascara off my face, and steal one of his uniforms. I take an Uber to the base. The driver listens to a radio preacher scream about the Four Horsemen. I dig my fingers into my palms.

In the Congo, my hands shake and my guts reel. The drone blows up a field hospital. When the goggles come off, Keller looks down at me. His face is blank. He clicks his tongue and says, "Good work, Josh Collins," before marching off, the glint of his ring piercing my eyes.

In my apartment bathroom, I turn on the shower, fall inside, and vomit in the tub. For the first time since I joined the Air Force, I sob, one thousand rose petals on the tile.