And she was purple. A soggy, dull, jumbled purple. Her hair was purple. Her body was purple. She was purple.
Stepping over empty corpses and mangled limbs, she weeps. Not for her lost comrades, but for herself. Her entire life had been determined by this choice. And it was wrong. All completely and utterly wrong. She hated herself for it. Days were lost pondering, pacing, fretting over one small decision. And she chose wrong.
She nudges the body of a man she once dined with. He made the right choice. She shifts her focus to another fallen acquaintance. He made the right choice too. Everyone chose right. They died for their ruler, and they died with pride. They know they'll be hailed as heroes with all of the festivities she longed for. They died willingly, with hopes of fulfilling their commander's dream of success. They made the right choice.
She. Her. The loner. That one chick who never made any friends, who never realized she didn't belong. She made the wrong choice, and she hated herself for it.
She pulls a sword from the undistinguishable corpse of a soldier she probably once knew. The fine leather which was crudely fashioned around the hilt, remains bloodied despite the rain. She runs her hand over the blade, and sighs. It was such a stupid ambition. Stupid. Dumb. Idiotic. No one would have thought she would make a decision, ultimately dragging her away from her dream. She chose wrong. She hates herself.
In a moment, the blade is hovering over her chest. The dirtied blade holds more stories than her whole life, and it laughs. It laughs with such scorn which pains her deeper than the most dreadful of wounds. It's chattering teeth, heaving chest, eyes wide with a jovial anguish, it laughs.
She hates the blade. She hates it more than she hates herself. More than she hates the choice she made.
She presses the blade softly against her tattered, dented breastplate, in a spot which leaves soft flesh open. Her face moves to the sky," I should have never joined the enemy's side."
She plunges the sword into herself, flinching only as it first makes contact. Her breath becomes labored and her eyes water. "This is how I die. At my own hand."
Blood seeps from the wound at an increasing pace. It slides down the blade, and covers her hand which soon falls to her side. And she collapses.
As dead as the others, she remains. Her eyes, dull and glossy, no longer hold the despair and regret which once tormented them. She was free.
Wind subtly blows over the battlefield, tossing strands of hair from heads, adjusting loose articles of clothing. The scent of blood and death lays heavy above the ground.
A/N
Hm, a short, blotchy piece of work. I started this during an anxiety attack in an attempt to calm myself. I liked the beginning, and decided to finish it. I guess it's okay, so I mean, yeah. It's not my best work, but it's acceptable. If it was bad, it wouldn't be here. Anyways, thanks for reading you guys.
-Twilit Lady of Majesty