I wrote this a few weeks ago. Kind of inspired by my Modern Art and the Great War class.
Never to dream again, the youth sits in the frozen mud. Fingers, dirty fingers, clench themselves mechanically. He sits among the dead and dying. He sat here before. There was a time, in the years before, when he had worked these fields. Then as now he his fingers were clenched, his feet sore, Legs stiff, arms heavy. His feet have been bloodied by years of work, now they have healed, with callous indignation. They casually rebuff even the worse treatment; just as they had then, when they worked. Now they toiled, along with the rest of him.
Then he always waited for the coolness of the summer twilight to relieve him. Now he sits in fearful anticipation. What had once been his dear friend was now his dearest enemy. He clutched at his rifle as the light darkened. The shadows were longer, stretching like the fingers of the Darkness they previewed, reaching for him and his mess mates. His fear was noticeable, but beneath notoriety. There would be no sympathy. There was no one stronger than he to help him.
The days of peaceful summer bliss where swept in wind. The leaves had turned early, if they had turned at all. He did not bother to notice. The frost had come, and made his nocturnal enemy more vile. There was no tool to break the ground save one. It came from above and was rarely appreciated. He would be home now, working in a cool barn, surrounded by restless animals and musty hay. Then as now, his work is never over.
He looks about himself. The noise hadn’t existed. He had registered none of it. He had found himself in his present condition quite involuntarily. Boots were sitting by his face, a dog tag attached to it. He peered at it cautiously, which of his mates would be the one to pay the price this time? No! That cannot be! It is impossible! He struggles to his feet! No! his feet will not support him this time, this time they will fail him, as he looks at the bottom of one of his until then faithful limbs, he feels the pain. A sharp twinge at first, then the sensation of nerves being dragged.
He reaches for his foot. The eyelets of the laces stare unapologetically back at him. Why did you bring us here? You need not have done that. This is your doing. We cannot continue this course with you. The boy cries. His manhood stripped as he longs for that loving bosom that sprang forth his life. The tears drip form his cheeks, mixing with the blood. His spirit oozing forth from him with each gasp as he cries.
He rolls over to stare up. Sympathetic eyes look down on him all around as they pass. None stop to help him. The pounding feet, still loyal to their owners do no alter their course, but unless to avoid the puddle of life forming next to babe.
But there is a pair that stop. They belong to another soldier. This one wears the Holy insignia of his office on his sleeve. The red and white marked arm takes his pulse. Lips scream to one another. The youth feels the blood draining form his face. His mandibles cannot form the response. He can only listen: I think he’s had it. He doesn’t even know where he is right now. The poor bastard. We gotta get out of here man! Lets get moving! More guys up ahead! Should we morphine him at least? No use, he’s in shock, he isn’t feeling it anymore anyways; save it for another.
The pain is ratcheted as vibrations shake the ground around him. The bombs do not stop. The youth reaches out for a companion, his arm drops into the puddle next to him. His fingers graze metal. They dig around in the mud until he makes out the shape of the object.
He grabs at his old friend. They had been through many assaults before. He clutches the familiar shape to him as he had become accustomed to it all those months ago in training. The bolt is still forward. The grim discharge has yet to be made. Now the child asks for one more favor from his deadly companion. The boy slips the metal tube into his lips, cringing at the mechanical taste of oil and steel. Steel is what runs through his veins as he reaches down into the trigger guard. The screams of the others drills into his ears as the furies of Greek Mythology. They haunt him, his will falters momentarily. The moment flies, and he gathers himself. He inhales one last deep breath of freedom, and now manhood. His youthfulness leaving him now, as he crosses a new threshold. The finger is tight on the metal now.
The youth sits under the old apple tree on the hill, among birds, and chirping of crickets. He watches the sunset. His hands clasped lazily behind his head, legs sprawled out . His feet are tickled in the grass, playful, and without care. He smiles as his breathing slows and darkness overcomes him slowly, allowing him to dream once again.
Graceandpeace
~Ross
