The Battlefield
The ground was covered in a dark, crimson liquid. Adorning the scarlet field were hundreds of bodies, all bloodied with huge gashes and missing limbs. I marched through the sanguine plain, carefully stepping over the corpses as to not disturb their eternal rest.
The battle had been fought for weeks, the enemy never relenting, and our side never giving up hope, pride or courage for our country. The result was the sea of blood before me.
To my right a man moaned, and I quickly rushed over to him. Assessing his wounds, I knew he had no hope of living to see another day. To be with his family again, his kids, his wife. He was gone.
I plunged my blade into his heart, despising myself every second. It wasn’t right. But I wouldn’t let him suffer. So I took away that last bit of life he had, that last bit of hope. His moaning stopped, but the blood still oozed from the recesses of his extensive wounds. I knelt down to one knee before the body, saying a quick prayer.
And then I left. Left him behind like trash, like he was worthless, like he had no honor. A new fire burned in my eyes; vengeance. That was the only way I would be satisfied now. My whole being filled with intense hatred, bloodlust as I trudged along farther. Past more and more bodies of my comrades. My friends.
Through the battlefield of hell.
My pace quickened, a newfound sense of urgency rising. They would be avenged. I climbed upward now, rising toward the top of the hill, my sword in my right hand, my shield bearing its coat of arms in my left.
As I reached the zenith of the mound, fear began to creep into my being. Below me was the enemy’s army, stronger and larger than ever before. They marched evenly in a straight line, toward me and the walls of the city around me.
I raised my sword, stared them straight on. For God and Country, I would stay and fight. I would give my life on this battlefield, this battle field of pain, of death. This living hell.
A. Page in the Stacks 