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Every Sunday night, Eduardo Rusca lights a candle for the all the loved ones this wretched war has taken from him.
One for his Heneral – the brave, mighty, angry man betrayed by his own countrymen. The one who plucked him from apathetic obscurity and turned him into a soldier. The last hope for this broken nation.
One for Paco – his best friend, his confidant, the older brother he never had. The first person in camp who believed in him as much as Luna did, and the last of the team he ever saw alive.
One for Manuel – the “kuya” of the group; the rational one, the practical one. The one who would give them comfort on those difficult nights when fear and loneliness would threaten to consume them.
One for Jose – his partner in crime, his punishment buddy, his biggest enabler. The one who would streak through the forest with him just for the heck of it. The one who would always have his back in battle.
And one for Nena – his first love, his childhood best friend, the one he failed to protect.
—
It’s another quiet Sunday evening in camp. He watches silently as Joven writes on his table by the window, the boys’ face looking far more worn out that it should be at his age. He could feel Joven looking at him as he gathers the candles and heads out to the back for his weekly ritual.
Tonight, another candle would join them.
“This one’s for you, Greg. You bastard.”