The Perfect Shot

I came back from the war a changed man. 

Many say that. And it’s not an uncommon story; I am not the only one. They come back with eyes holding in whirlpools of pain; visible scars on their skin, invisible ones on their heart; and minds in a torrent of paralyzing flashbacks. Coming back from years of witnessing the ugliest sides of civilization, it’s hard to unsee it anymore. War leaves a mark, a taint on a young boy’s perception of humanity. 

But I have recovered, remarkably. Sometimes the slightest moment, the smallest words, trigger an avalanche of memories I’ve kept at a shadowy, blurry distance. But I no longer feel guilty for living in peace in New York City. I don’t see the bloodied hands of my comrades reaching out to me in dreams every night, nor do I marvel at how I am alive, or wish that I should have been one who died without a proper burial. 

Life in New York still seems unreal. I still wonder how one side of the world is ravaged with claws of death and destruction, while the other side takes morning walks and evening dinners by a steady lamp of electricity. 

As I stand at the railing, facing the buffeting winter winds on the cruise, the Statue of Liberty’s torch in the distance, I feel that I have finally come to peace with my years on the front line as a military sniper. They are not something to regret. They are not something to celebrate, either. Nor are they a looming thorn in my mind that jabs at me every time I shift. 

I pull on my gloves, tighten my leather jacket, rest my hands on the railing, and close my eyes. The wind is cold. The wind is real. I am safe here. 

“Ah…what an opportunity for a perfect shot.”

I turn to my left, fast. I had not noticed this young boy move to stand next to me. His arm in his gray parka is against mine. His close-shaven haircut allows his eyes to burn bright with the fresh-faced, dreamy, bold glimmer of youth. He looks as if he had just entered his twenties. There’s a spark inside him fueling his every step.  

He reminds me of my past self. I aspired to be a military sniper ever since I watched them on television. I strove for that dream even when I knew I would come back like those wounded men with rugged eyes and frail sanities—intact on the outside but bleeding on the inside. I believed I was different. But of course, it’s never the same imagining it than actually experiencing it, is it? 

But to have such courage still in your bones. To still see brightness in every corner of the world. To still have that look in your eyes. 

Perhaps this young man is training as a sniper. I want to tell him to quit his job, but I also want to encourage him, tell him to stay strong. His youth draws me like a moth to a flame. Suddenly I want to touch something real and true like I had back then, even if I draw back bleeding.  

“Why?” I ask. “Why is this an opportunity for a perfect shot?”

“Look at that open space. The light,” he answers passionately. 

“Young man, your name is…?”

“Logan.”

“Maybe in reality, Logan, instead of open space, you would need to hide yourself behind something for that shot. Isolate yourself from what goes on before you.” 

Logan turns to me, curiosity spilling all over his face. “I’ve never heard anyone give me advice like that before. Can you tell me what you believe to be a perfect shot? I want to hear more of what you think.”

“I…” I hesitate. It has been so long since I talked about the job of a sniper that the words feel almost rusty in my mouth. But he is so young and so earnest. “I believe it’s the subject of the shot that influences how well you do. Sometimes it’s an object. Sometimes it’s…alive.” I am not so sure if I should continue, but Logan is already very much interested in what I have to say. 

“Sometimes you don’t even shoot anything. You investigate, instead. Explore. Set up camp, get to know the area, the life within, how it works, it’s heartbeat.” Like a spy for your side. “Other times, when we do shoot, it’s very complex. A perfect shot is only perfect technically. It’s by the angle, the equipment, how well you did it, how well you hid yourself, how well it was timed, how fast you snatched that open opportunity, or how patient you were…” 

“But emotionally?” Logan asks quietly.

“Emotionally…it will leave a mark. It never truly wins. That perfection comes at a cost. It will always…” 

Scar. After each shot is the guilt of having ended a human life. That moment is astronomically brief, small, compared to what it finished. Eventually the bullets add up. Each shot replays in the mind in a relentless cycle of grief. Even if I aim and pull the trigger on something that isn’t even alive—like a radio transmitter, generators, food or water supplies—I am well aware of the consequences. 

“I’ve always been taught the technical elements of a perfect shot,” Logan says softly. “I didn’t know a shot was so complicated. Sometimes the emotional feeling it evokes is far more important than, well, the technique.” He looks out at the ocean. “Maybe when I talk about the perfect shot, it’s too surface level.” 

“A shot should never be made carelessly,” I continue. I feel myself starting to slip back into the memories. 

“Uh…excuse me.” The voice pulls me out of the mud of my mind. Logan and I look up.

A man older than Logan, but younger than me, in his thirties, perhaps, stands to my right. He is dressed in a casual, elegant, yet very expensive trench coat and scarf. The man pushes his round glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I overheard this young man mention  the 'perfect shot.’” He smiles at us. “May I join your conversation? It’s been too long since I debated a topic with such a hidden depth. My name is Tristen.”

Another fellow sniper. Logan turns to him and grins. “I’m Logan.”

“Charlie,” I say. 

Tristen stands to my right and leans against the railing, throwing his head back at the ocean wind. I catch a faint whiff of something sweet around him, an aroma that is rich and almost dizzying. “I think too many people don’t understand the momentum a shot has. All of the components, all of that time, flows into that one moment where you do it. It’s quick, brief, but after…” He looks at me and Logan. “A perfect shot leaves a sizzling feeling in your stomach. It leaves you feeling raw.”

His words ring true in my heart. 

“I find myself so inexperienced compared to both of you,” Logan says wondrously. “I was too obsessed with the result and not of its impact.” 

“I’ve never had a shot I was completely satisfied with,” Logan says. “Each one was so rushed. It didn’t match the gravity of the subject. I found it shallow.” He looks up at the sky. His eyes are almost glistening, with tears. “I almost thought of quitting.”

“I understand,” I say. “It is a difficult thing to do.”

“No, gentlemen!” Tristen protests passionately. “Too many shots are never good, but you should never give up. We are all men that crave excitement; we should not quit that one second simply because of the work that goes into it, or that it doesn’t perfectly fit what our hearts desire. Everything requires practice.”

“I’m afraid those days are over,” I answer tiredly. “And sometimes, a life can’t withstand so much excitement and emotion.”

“It’s not everyday I stumble upon such talented individuals,” Logan interrupts earnestly. “Not everyone understands the beauty of a nature photographer’s work. Can I get your numbers?” 

Tristen and I freeze. 

“Nature photographer?” we repeat together.

“Yes, haven’t we been talking about that perfect shot? When you get that one final photo, after so much setting up, so much skulking among nature, to capture that one moment you were striving for in the camera?”

Tristen starts laughing. “Oh, I run a business where we make alcoholic drinks. I had been referring to the amount of work it takes to deliver the bottle on the table, where you down that perfect shot of whiskey or tequila and relish the burning feeling in your throat and stomach. The 'perfect shot' is a motto in our family business. It’s something we want our customers to praise us for.”

Logan bursts out laughing, doubling over next to the railing. “We’d been talking about completely different things! What about you, Charlie? Are you a photographer or an experienced businessman like Tristen, or something else?”

My head is still spinning from the incredulity of the situation. I believed we were all talking about that perfect shot on the battlefield, where our bullet, even with the grief that comes with it, helps our nation’s armies one step closer, no matter how small, to the goal in every soldier’s heart for what the outcome of the war will be.

I believed we were talking about that “perfect shot” as military snipers.

“Something else,” I finally answer. “I used to be a military sniper, in fact.”

I begin laughing. The smile that breaks across my face is so wide it almost hurts. For once, the tears I shed are ones of joy. It has been years since I am so amused. Mirth is something almost forgotten, something foreign. The cadences of our laughter lift a final burden on my heart. It reminds me of the freedom I once felt in my youth. The way I dared to join in on silly conservations,  perform outrageous dares, or bicker over something trivial. It was how I felt before I left to fight in another country. Before I had come back as a broken veteran with a war living inside of me. 

I never thought of my job as something humorous, but today it happened. Today, because I was strong enough to discuss something I had been hiding from, I unearthed a new, fresh concept of my job. 

All my life I have been training to perfect that one shot, and once I finally learned it, polished it, so I could finish my targets off in seconds, the joy I expected to feel did not come. I felt pain instead. But today, I finally learned what a perfect shot can be.

It can be a photographer’s debut work, or a motto for a bar, or a bullet from a military sniper, or an overdue shot at a life long ago.

A perfect shot for obtaining joy I have not allowed myself to touch.

BY CHELSEA GUO