Survival of the Fittest
Sebastian Lennox I don’t want to die. The thought shot through my mind as fast as the bullets chasing me down. It was 1949, and I was 12 years old, the year before the Korean War began, the year my father left my mother, his second wife, and remarried, taking me and my half-sisters to a new home ten miles away. Despite everything, my love for my mother remained unchanged. Every day, after school, I would secretly walk to my old home, down unpaved roads, and through hilly mountainous regions, so that I could spend a few moments with her. I would then walk the ten miles back to my new life, no one being the wiser of where I was going and what I was doing. At first I enjoyed the rhythm of my routine. I was relieved that I did not have to give up one life for the other. Until I got caught. Although Korea was still one country, there were tensions between two opposing political and philosophical factions. There were rumors of kidnappings carried out by the North. Young men and boys would just disappear off the streets. Rumor said that they were forming an unwilling army. I was traveling back after seeing my mother that day. Orange leaves crunched under my feet. Suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind and covered my mouth. I struggled to break free, but I was overpowered. My wrists bound, they dragged me into a long line of boys. We were surrounded by soldiers, and they barked for us to march forward. They told us that we were being taken to an encampment, where we would be trained to be soldiers. Terror and fear paralyzed me. I was doomed. We started the slow trek to the camp. I was in shock. My numb legs moved as if I were a marionette. Then, just when resignation seeped in, the boy behind me whispered, “We have to get out of here. We can do it together. We can scatter.” I did not believe it, but I realized the ropes around my wrists were not tied tightly. They were put on hastily. The boy nudged me again. “Let’s see if we can get to that patch of trees. We’ll have a better chance if we escape at the same time.” I was shaking, but I had to try or die trying. I had no choice. We bolted. We zig-zagged through the trees and up the side of the mountain. Bullets swished past my ear and peppered the ground at my feet. I ran. The boy had separated from me, and his image grew smaller. That was the last time that I saw him. I threw myself behind a boulder, breathless, and waited. I waited until it was dark, when it seemed that the troops would not be returning. Slowly, I made my way down from the mountain range and continued back home like any other day. When I walked through the front door, my stepmother began scolding me for missing dinner. “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why are you late?!” I slunk down, bowed my head in shame. “I’m sorry.” She replied, “Go to your room.” My father was silent. Later that night, my stepmother came into my room. “I know you’ve been visiting your mother. You will have to decide if you want to go and be with her or be a part of this family. You cannot do both.” That day was my luckiest and unluckiest day of my life. I would not see my mother again until I was 25. |