Soldier.

He had a long day in front of him. His gut told him he was going to fight the worst battle in his life. He’d fought many unnecessary ones. They’d made him. He came out victorious. He achieved a lot of responsibilities. He had the time of his life fighting those mundane ones, but of late he was showing signs of weariness. He wished he’d taken things slow. He’d wished he didn’t carry so much of responsibility on his shoulders. He wished he were good at things other than fighting.
He needed love. He needed a life of his own. Time for leisure, time to do things he actually wanted to do, rather than what he had to. He wished every turn he took weren’t a life-threatening change. He needed to paint, to read, to write, to sing, hum and listen. He wanted to. He wished he could. He wished he were good at things other than fighting.
Every time he ate, bathed or breathed, he feared it might be his last. Yet, in a bitter-sweet way, he hoped it was his last. He knew what he was asking for. He was tired of being the last to know and the last to act. He wanted his old knowledge and information channels back. He wanted his old life back. His old life with less responsibility. He wished he weren’t so good at fighting. He wished he were the best.
That morning he got up, at four to face a battle at eight. One hour to get ready, two to prep individually and one to prep with the group. He got up thinking of the long hard day in front of him. He wished it wouldn’t cause them all serious damage. He knew his enemy. They’d always won against them. They were going to win again. He knew. He had to know. He believed. He had to believe, for belief was the core of all existence. Belief that something good was going to happen, despite all the butterflies in the stomach. Despite the gut feeling of failure.
He bathed with those butterflies, ate what he could and threw it all up. He wished he didn’t have to do this. You’re the best we have. We can’t afford to lose you. He wished he could fight an easier enemy. So much for being good enough. Good enough to die, he laughed.
In the battlefield, waiting for it to begin, he thought of the tactics. He wished he had someone to look at now, who could give him enough strength to go on. To show him why he was fighting. To show him that yes, it was worth fighting for. Those hypocrites. They want the glory, the territory. The fools, we are, to fight for their glory and get rewarded a lakh for losing our lives.
The battle begins. He sees what he is fighting. Oh wow! These people know their tactics. How we underestimated them. I wish we were more prepared. He knew this is the end. He just wanted to take as many down as possible. He wanted to show he fought. He tried to fight.
He saw that the last he could do was to die in the hands of that old man-comrade, or that young man. He could save the person who would kill him. He could chose his murderer and the person he was to murder. He didn’t want the young man to live his life. He wished he were good at things other than fighting . So he killed him, just as he heard a gunshot and saw his own blood splutter in air. He saw, heard, felt and moved no more.

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About TheBlackWallflower

I'm just your average unique person. I love to read and write (no surprises there, eh?) and think a lot. I adore Rowling and think Harry Potter should be a religion. I also hate pink. I love fluff generally because it makes me feel intelligent and I love poetry because it makes me feel different. (yes, references.) I'm married to Sirius Black. So I sign myself as The Bitch alarmingly often. Oh, and I love Mr. Darcy. And Jo Longo. And Chandler Bing. And Sherlock. (Yes, I'm a fantard.) And in case you want to drop in a good, or a critical word, feel free to email me: theblackwallflower@gmail.com OR, follow me on Twitter: @WallflowerBlack Enough with the babble. OkBye. View all posts by TheBlackWallflower

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