Jem lifted his face to the sky as forked lightning illuminated the moonless night. Thunder rumbled, echoing off the mountains and rolling down into the valley, shaking the earth beneath him, but he didn’t open his eyes. He stood waiting for the rain, hoping it would wash him clean this time. The wind picked up, whipping through the tops of the trees and snaking around him, yanking at the tails of his flannel shirt. The first icy wet drop splattered against his cheek at the same time he heard their voices over Bandit’s incessant barking.

“Don’t be an idiot, Jem! Listen to the dog and get inside.”

“Are you insane?”

“Come on, man, you know better than staying out here in weather like this.”

He ignored them all, just as his therapist instructed. After all, he couldn’t save them now. They died with courage, isn’t that what the news reporters and politicians said? But they didn’t, not really. He opened his mouth and roared into the night, not that anyone would hear it over the storm that was picking up speed. Take me.

“It wouldn’t bring us back.” 

The same reporters and politicians told the world Jem was a hero and then plastered his chest with medals and awards for doing his job. For making it home alive while his comrades — his brothers — returned in caskets adorned with flags. He didn’t deserve the title, and if they knew he gave the marching order, they wouldn’t have pinned it on him.

Word: rain | Action: washing