War Monologue
What Really Matters in the End?
In life there will be a point where life tests you. Your beliefs and morals are what makes you decide your path. But what if the right path was to take your own life.
The crack of gunshots, bombs were whistling past missing by inches, bullets were spraying over my head. Bodies were dropping around me. I stood, I fired. The line between life and death was blurred. The realisation of being where I was at the time never sank in. My face was wet, I couldn’t understand why or how. I struggled to see past the tears in my eyes. It struck me, I gasped for air. I was crying. I realised what I just saw. The man that had my words written in stone, I promised him that I would always be there. It was my brother lying there hit. I was on the ground screaming, blood weeping through my hands, I pushed the wound down, more blood pushed out. I felt his heart beat in my own hands. His chest had been blown open. I had my brother’s blood on my hands, I had the enemy’s blood sprayed on me. It was at this moment I realised there was no difference in colour. There was no real difference in the way we fought, the way we spoke, the way we lived. I was laying there bathed in bright red in the middle of the fighting field. My ears were ringing, everything stopped, and no one was firing. I looked around; I saw my own Comrades standing there firing, at what? Men that were just hiding in the shrub, they were after something, someone, but not to kill. They wanted to evade the war but thrived for the justice of their people. Oblivious to what they were after, I stood up ready to scream. But what? The only thing that set the line between us and ‘them’ was we spoke a different language. They would not understand a word I would say, they were merely a less developed race, and what were they now? ‘They’ were not firing, we were. I called my men off, I stood out from the refuge leaving the stream of vivid red. It was then when I felt the ache in my thigh, I was hit.
In life there will be a point where life tests you. Your beliefs and morals are what makes you decide your path. But what if the right path was to take your own life.
The crack of gunshots, bombs were whistling past missing by inches, bullets were spraying over my head. Bodies were dropping around me. I stood, I fired. The line between life and death was blurred. The realisation of being where I was at the time never sank in. My face was wet, I couldn’t understand why or how. I struggled to see past the tears in my eyes. It struck me, I gasped for air. I was crying. I realised what I just saw. The man that had my words written in stone, I promised him that I would always be there. It was my brother lying there hit. I was on the ground screaming, blood weeping through my hands, I pushed the wound down, more blood pushed out. I felt his heart beat in my own hands. His chest had been blown open. I had my brother’s blood on my hands, I had the enemy’s blood sprayed on me. It was at this moment I realised there was no difference in colour. There was no real difference in the way we fought, the way we spoke, the way we lived. I was laying there bathed in bright red in the middle of the fighting field. My ears were ringing, everything stopped, and no one was firing. I looked around; I saw my own Comrades standing there firing, at what? Men that were just hiding in the shrub, they were after something, someone, but not to kill. They wanted to evade the war but thrived for the justice of their people. Oblivious to what they were after, I stood up ready to scream. But what? The only thing that set the line between us and ‘them’ was we spoke a different language. They would not understand a word I would say, they were merely a less developed race, and what were they now? ‘They’ were not firing, we were. I called my men off, I stood out from the refuge leaving the stream of vivid red. It was then when I felt the ache in my thigh, I was hit.