Words are what starts a war and actions are what continues it.
People are to blame.
Me, I can’t blame anyone.
My choices were made by me and I can’t point a finger at anybody but myself.
Innocence and naive thinking can protect a person from the stains of life but can be the end of another. Because of my naive thinking, everyone is dead. I can hear the melody of guns over the trenches. Its thunder, I’m now used to hearing. It’s destruction I am used to seeing.
The screams run through my head, loud enough that I don’t know what is happening anymore. My friends, my comrades and those I hate are dead and I know that my time is nearly up
As a commander, I have failed my troops. As a father, I have failed to witness the first moments of my son’s life. And as a son, I betrayed my own father to seek the freedom of millions but was I wrong?
One wrong decision sent my troops to the grave and now, I am alone. In a couple of minutes time, I will charge into a raging battlefield and at that point, my fate will lay in God’s hands. If I die, I will die a peaceful death knowing that I have done all I can for the freedom of this country.
If I die, I will die a peaceful death knowing that I have done all I can for the freedom of this country. If I live, I will live hell on Earth as I will return to my father’s hands. That, truly, is worse than death for millions more will have to die because of me. Because I couldn’t go down to hell.
My body betrays my thoughts. Tremors rip through my body while sweat drips down my face. I can only imagine that my face would be several shades lighter by now. My hands shake as I struggle to get a solid grip on my measly excuse of a gun.
With all the strength I have left, I climb up the trenches and charge with all my might. Bullets ripple through the air. My body ends up becoming a pincushion for the enemy’s bullets but I can feel nothing so I continue to charge. I yell my curses and shout profanities and the cowards hiding behind the trenches.
I shout for my fallen comrades and I shout because it makes me less scared. It makes me less scared of death. But soon my strength forsakes my will to live. My legs give out and soon, I am on the ground. I struggle to get up but my body betrays me once again. Ah, the melancholy of death. Ever so bittersweet.
With death waiting for its collection, I lay there praying in my final moments.
I pray for the survival of my friends, for the survival of my remaining comrades and most importantly, survival for my newly born baby, that his mother will still live long enough for it to grow up. But I know that won’t happen unless I fight. Unless I go against those who wish us dead. So that freedom becomes reality…
A short story inspired by a poem written by a very talented friend.
Love Lucy xox