The characters are not mind. No copyright intended.
The war was obviously not where I belonged.
Other soldiers at our camp were already confident that we would win the battle. They were drinking and playing cards. I mostly sat in my tent and read one poetry book that I'd stolen from my father's study before I had left home. It was the third week I had been at the camp, and in three days the battalion would be moving somewhere that action would take place. That was the night that I decided I'd be going home.
My father was the person who had convinced me to go to war, even though it was more of a demand than a request. I had never gotten along with my father since my mother died. We were always arguing about one disagreement or another. My brother, Stefan, was the better of the two of us, the spitting image of the son my father wished that I was.
By morning the next day, the whole camp was packing up the tents and supplies that had been set up in the field. We had been here for training and going over plans. While everyone else was still concentrating on packing everything in the small bags they were being allowed to bring, I walked to the sergeant to tell him I was making my leave.
It wasn't a far walk home, nothing more than a four hour walk. I made it home by noon, pausing outside the Salvatore estate, looking at the new horse and buggy that was not parked outside the stables. I wondered if father decided to get something new with me being gone, but the thought was easily pushed aside with the memory of it just being Giuseppe Salvatore and the prodigal son.
I saw someone moving around the stables. I could only assume it was Stefan, tending his horse. The corners of my mouth turned upward when I recalled how disturbed father got when Stefan was doing dirty work when we had slaves. Instead of going to see my brother, I decided to go and greet my father first.
It was when I was walking up the stairs to the front door that I realized how much more vibrant everything was-the trees, the paint on the house. Everything was so much more welcoming when you spent weeks with dirty, drunk men preparing to go to battle. The door creaked as I pushed it open, same as it had since I was a young boy. I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was after I filled the glass that I heard movement behind me.
Turning around, it was my father I saw standing in the entryway to the kitchen. "I don't know if I see a ghost," he said with disgust, "or my son who is supposed to be at war."
"Pleasure to see you too, father," I replied with a smirk.
"I thought we agreed that you'd be gone for a while."
"I know you'd like to rid me for a time and pretend that you only have one perfect son, but there are two Salvatore brothers."
"Enough!" His voice rose and his Italian accent became more apparent. "I will not have any son of mine disobey me."
"I'm not going to war, father. I don't belong there. I belong here! Let me follow my own mine with what I want!" My voice rose to an equal level.
"You should be more like your brother."
"More like my brother? You'd like that, wouldn't you? Well, let me say-"
I was cut off by the opening and closing of a door. Stefan walked into the kitchen. He looked baffled when he saw me, and after he looked me up and down, his mouth changed into a smile. "Damon!" I slapped my brother on the back as he embraced me. "Brother!" I replied, equally joyous.
We both started chatting and walking to the door when my father called out my name. "Damon," he said, "this isn't over." I turned around, and gave my father a crooked smile. "Of course it isn't." I turned around and walked out the door with my brother following closely behind.