This was actually made to determine my "writing age" on a forum I go on. But, whatevs. Go ahead and read it. Also, if you don't mind, I'd like come critic.
Disclaimer: All I was for Christmas is FMA:B, FMA:B, FMA:B…
She pulled the trigger, another body falling to the ground. Tired burgundy eyes scrutinized for another human being, mind only having one thought. Everyone that was not in a blue military form was to be executed.
Riza Hawkeye was a murderer. A bullet not wasted, her name was proven. A shot to the forehead and she moved on.
Bullet after bullet, people died. Citizens of her own country collapsed, dead, and corpses roamed the battlefield because of her finger on the trigger. But there was no blood. It soaked into the desert sand like a sponge, leaving no crimson trails. The only red left were the blank eyes of deceased Ishvalians.
Why did they insist on killing their own people? She was supposed to be a perfect soldier. Perfect soldiers did not ask such question. But she did. It was her job, and apparently an honor.
Every night ended with sleeping pills and a glass of water. Well, what could be considered a night. Her body clock was horribly distorted, as she would be called out at random times of the clock to do her duty. And if that wasn't enough, the nightmares haunted her. Angry souls, out to seek revenge. Dark, purple shadows appeared under her eyes, contrasting to her pasty white skin. She couldn't remember the last time she had had a good night's sleep and a decent meal.
She had been in this bloody massacre for three months, even if it felt like a lifetime. Every second felt like an hour, every time she felt the backfire of her rifle felt like another weight on her shoulders.
Hiding in a camouflage coat the color of sand, she fired her gun, another limp body to add to the pile. She killed.
But not for herself. For him.
Well, hope you liked.