Kuvala Wells turned seventy today.

You are an awfully healthy woman, the doctor would say each time she went for a check-up.

But I never will be, she whispered under her breath.

Her shoulder has been aching for forty years already.

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December 1937, Nanjing

From all the years of being a journalist, Kuvala knew battles never ended. War after war, battle after battle, followed by their inextricable bloodshed. Scarred cities, scarred bodies, scarred memories came from the most unexpected places, and as the old saying goes, you never know what will come first: an accident or tomorrow. But there was one thing that Kuvala always did: she kept her camera by her side, and it remained her only comfort in this war-torn land.

Kuvala arrived in Nanjing in early December. The reports from Shanghai were finished, and she was merely intending a brief stay in China before returning to Seattle, but that was before Ben insisted that she stay a few more days to capture the stories of the refugees and their “heart-tearing stories” of displacement.

They would sell for so much, he’d say. He had his mind on selling stories for good prices, and despite his obnoxiousness as a journalist, he made a good deal of money that supported the press, though Kuvala didn’t want to admit it.

She hated the job. But not because of the language barrier, for she picked up the language here and there, but because of the act of simply interviewing. The civilians, they’d look at her with those yellow, murky eyes and dark, thin faces, and mumble when they were asked to answer something. Kuvala always wondered if these interview questions, given to her by the press and always asking: “Where is your family?” or “What do you do every day?” would be an act of unraveling the repercussions of these sanguinary wars, or just simply ripping open the refugees’ half-sealed wounds.

She never wanted to know the answer to that, though.

The cold wind nibbled at Kuvala’s already red cheeks as she made her way out of the station. There really was not much luggage—she had only a handheld bag and her camera. She let the strap of her small camera hang from her shoulder as she dangled her bag from her right hand. As she made her way to the suburbs, she went by an alley midway. Kuvala was able to take a peek inside before one of the youths discovered her.

                                                                                              They’re Chinese, she thought.

Hallo.

                                                                                                                                 Hello.

He was wearing an Ivy-green jacket that was bleached, with a terribly tattered sleeveless white undershirt. Speckles of dirt adorned his face, and he roughly wiped them with his sleeve, only making it worse by smudging them. Kuvala smiled. The youngster returned it.

Can you take a picture of us, please?

                                                                                                               Sure, say cheese.

Eggplant.

Snap.

The whirring of the small machine signaled the end of the favor. It took her two seconds to take their photo, and the boys took two minutes to take a look at it, while overwhelming her with their flattering compliments and bombarding her with questions. They crowded around, laughing, arguing who looked worse, calling her a genius, and asking if she could make them look taller, older, stronger—better.

Wait till the others see it,

they’ll be so envious.

                                                                                                               I’m sure they will.

Have you always liked being

a journalist?

                                                                                                                                   Yes.

You speak really good Chinese.

                                                                                                                 Why, thank you.

They talked for an hour at least, standing, sitting, or leaning against the wall, intently listening to what the others had to say. The Sun was high up in the sky when their noon break was over, and they had to get back to work.

Good luck.

                                                                                                                             You too.

But two days later, the laughter ended.

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Kuvala Wells was violently yanked from her bed in the early morning of December 13. The Japanese pulled her along the floor and dumped her into a nearby river.

                                                  You saw nothing today!

But she couldn’t hear them under the icy skin-prickling water. It clawed at her, stealing what little breath she had left. Thirty minutes later, Kuvala washed onto the shore. She dragged herself out of the freezing water, clutching the stones, and lifted herself with all her might—she ended up shivering behind a pile of logs after grabbing a dispersed jacket by the riverbank. It was only then that she realized: there is an invasion.

She witnessed the group of boys who had so kindly asked for a picture two days back being used for bayonet practice. Swords sliced into their bodies, and the sound of metal piercing flesh shook Kuvala. She remained silent, trembling violently and curling up from her hiding place. It was a few hours later that the horrific noise subsided, and she slowly opened her eyes again.

The Japanese had moved on to the next town.

Gently, Kuvala patted the dirt from her behind as she stood up. The view before her made her gag as she leaned against a wall, steadying her breath.

The town that had been overflowing with life and morale had disappeared. It was as if a tornado had wiped the town of everything it once held dearest.

She scanned the ground and located the boys within two minutes. She covered her mouth to gag again on the side and washed her mouth with the water in the lake afterward. Kuvala took her camera out with trembling hands.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Quick photos of the aftermath.

Kuvala fled right after. 

She took off the coat on her way. It didn’t warm her freezing body, and it felt too light for a cotton one. Ripping it open, no cotton nor feather was to be found. She swore under her breath.

Snap.

Kuvala hurried to the station, bag in her right hand, and the camera hanging on her shoulder. It felt heavier than when she arrived. The small machine stayed on her shoulder on the whole ride to the harbor, and the ride home, one that she had to cross the Pacific. It was almost two weeks later that she arrived in Seattle.

She arrived home. Everything was in place, just like when she left all those months ago. She gently placed the camera on the dining table. Her shoulders hurt from carrying it all these weeks. A red mark decorated her left shoulder, and it throbbed. But it still didn’t go away a month later. The doctor said that it would be okay if it didn’t really bother her. So Kuvala went back home.

And her aching shoulders still remind her of everything.

The ache in her shoulders never seemed to go away.