Minor Character

[Author's Note: This story was originally published in September of 2001 in my literary LiveJournal community, indiefiction. It plays with the notion of the "main character."]

Gun shots fired all around me. I was cowering in a foxhole. I crouched next to James Corker. He was my reason for doing anything.

"Joe," James said. "I'm going over."

We had made it this far, I figured he couldn't die. Actually, I convinced myself to the point that I actually believed that he couldn't die.

My life had been plagued by stereotype war movies. Every one had some buff major character that could run through a barrage of fire without getting shot.

Then there was his buddy who would follow, and get hit by stray fire.

That was how I felt most of the time after I met James. We were paired together, after the war broke out, and the propaganda distributed. We were stationed in the same area, and were placed in the same group, and finally paired up due to our names being alphabetically adjacent.

He had managed to not get shot by the enemies. I got grazed once, and it was close, but I hadn't yet fulfilled my Minor character duties.

"Joe," James sad, "I'm going over."

I watched as he ran across the field, bullets missing him. I got up to follow, stoic and resigned to my upcoming fate.

As I ran, I reflected on my past. I never really did anything too noteworthy, just day-in, day-out mundane things. I really was a minor character.

James ran in front of me. The bullets hadn't yet found me. Suddenly, James went down. He was hit. I wasn't. My microcosm fell apart. I had no reason left to die.

I stumbled, sadly into the nearest foxhole. There, I started crying.

I was the main character after all.

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