Dust
He was dying. An enemy soldier had somehow crossed no man’s land dropped over the edge of the trench behind him. He’d reacted quickly, shooting the guy in the neck but not before getting shot in the stomach himself. They were both bleeding out, and they knew it. Neither felt the need to finish the job for the job was already done. The enemy had his hand cupped to his neck, trying desperately to staunch the bleeding, but deep down, he knew he was dying, faster than he was. The soldier was crying, silently, tears streaming down his face from the corners of his eyes, which were squeezed shut with grief. He wondered what that man was thinking of that brought him such sadness. Was it his loved ones, who he would never embrace again? Was it his friends, who would never hear his laugh again? Was it a pet who would never know where their master went? Or was it simply the fear all animals held, the fear of the unknown abyss that came after death? He had no way of knowing, for as he wondered these thoughts, the enemy had died, his back against the mud of the trench, his left side drenched in bright, scarlet blood.
He was not as lucky though. A bullet to the stomach was fatal, yes, but a slow, arduous, death. One with lots of time for memories and recalling of dreams. The man was not lucky enough to have one. He had no family who would mourn his death, no friends who would avenge him, no pets who would wonder where he went. So he lay there, blood pooling under him from the hole in his stomach, his boots, pants, and shirt caked in the mud of the damned trench he lay in. The trench that forced men to die by the hundreds for the gain of a couple feet. The trench that showed up as little more than a border on the war map back home.
What game was this, where millions of people would die for the sake of an ideology, of a belief. Millions of lives full of memories, bonds, laughs, smiles, tears and pain, simply thrown away because someone thought that they were worth the loss. There, across from him, a corpse of his supposed enemy, but what was it other than a corpse now? Just a few minutes ago, that cadaver was a living man, no, a boy. A boy who had lived perhaps nineteen years of life, nineteen years of 365 days just so that he could die in the mud and filth of the trench. Nineteen years of life. Of broken bones and ugly scars. Of stolen kisses and whispered sweet nothings. Of smiles and jokes and laughter. Nineteen years of living, only to end because he had been too gutsy, too stupid, too slow.
And so the man wept. A single tear, suspended on his eyelid for a second, maybe two, before falling down his cheek, from his chin, to the mud spattered, gore stained uniform he wore. For he knew the value of a life, the value of years of experiences, big and small, joyful and tragic, had. When he finally opened his eyes, he stared to the sky, and died, those final thoughts and curses now like so much dust.
