Personal Narrative Essay

I slid into my heavy boots, picked up the rifle leaning against the wall, and took a long look at the woman next to me. She was beautiful, timid--a perfect wife. She’d been with me for five years, five long years I’d never soon forget. She worked at a nearby factory, assembling bullets for Arkadia. Watching her roll over in bed, I grabbed a hold of her arm, shaking her awake somewhat violently. She woke up, startled.
“McKinley? Why are you awake so early?” she whispered. I looked towards the alarm clock, the screen illuminated with green numbering: 5:40.
“I work. I always work.”
“Why does a delivery man work so early? Why does he carry a firearm?”
“Because the delivery man does very important deliveries for the military, and we’re at war,”

I watched her lips curl into a toothy grin, and felt my own lips attempt to curl--a mistake. My lips cracked from the dryness of the air, and I could taste the iron of my blood.
“I promise.”
I stood up, bringing the rifle with me. My wife would wake up later, probably at 8:20, and get to the small workshop that made ammunition at around 10. I walked towards the door, slowly reached for the doorknob, and turned it.
The sun was barely rising, and the houses were quiet. Even the hills were sleeping, their grasses rolling in the wind as they stretched out to greet the sun. I was heartfelt, and I began to walk north. The low concrete houses began to recede. Headlights approached from the east on the hard dirt road, and the several engines made out to be at least four jeeps--three filled with soldiers carrying rifles bigger and heavier than mine, as well as armor thick enough to give a tank shell a run for its money. Along with them, was a red-bereted man wearing a heavy coat--it was obvious he was uncomfortable in it, and there were stains on the back of it. I watched the soldiers escort him to a small building that I’d never noticed before, a building that had no signs or words on