The Firsts and the Lasts

I miss my home. It's only been a few months; I've been away for longer but this is different. War is so different. When I first enrolled, all the men were there for the same sort of reason as I; everyone has their own story, their own reason to sign up, but for the same purpose. Some wanted justice, some were just bored with their lives, some had this hero-complex and some were like me: they didn't feel good enough. We all wanted a purpose. I wanted a purpose. I still do, and now, here I am standing in the middle of a reddened desert, loaded with things I had never even seen before in my life. I have fragmentation grenades strapped to my chest, a pistol looped on my camos and an assault rifle in my hand. I know I should've expected this beforehand, when I signed my name on that pointless piece of paper, but I didn't. This was surreal.

The others only just dropped me in my position from the helicopter, and now I was alone. Completely and undeniably alone. Even surrounded by the bursting noises or weaponry and the frantic cries it didn't feel real. It couldn't all just be a dream, could it? Everything around me was too realistic, too busy and too tangible. Booming, the shots echoed, the sounds slicing off of the sharp rocks and sand, scraping at my skin.

It was that one bang, that single shot that made me turn my head. If I hadn't have looked, I may still have gone home after the war. I must've only been here, frozen in my spot for an hour, terrified. An hour and I had lost already. The bullet sliced through my chest, just below my heart. If I had stayed facing the other way it would've gone straight by the edge of the other side of my chest. That didn't happen – just my luck really. Oh god, I was never religious myself, but having grown up with a religious family and seeing them pray daily, I thought to try. It couldn't hurt, I had nothing more to lose, I already lost my chance to see their faces again. Praying made me feel… I'm not sure. It's strange, I felt closer to them, even though I hadn't taken one step closer to defeating the thousand or so miles between us. I was bleeding out, I knew it, but the shock had rendered me motionless, in silence. Now that the pain had passed, there was just a dull ache by the wound, it was becoming almost numb. I didn't know if I should be grateful of that or not. After all, pain is the only thing that reminds we're alive, right? That we're human?

Dying. This is all too quick. Stop. Rewind.

"Now you see, Kay, that's why it will never hurt to pay more attention to your surroundings." His mother finished her old wives' tale, grinning evilly, using his sister's nickname to show she was joking. Maybe even mocking, but the glint of mischief in her eye softened it. His mother enjoyed telling scary tales and myths to the girl, her expression never unrevealing, it itself telling a story in response to her own. Her small, blue eyes were wide open, her mouth half open and full of half chewed chicken. He poked her side, jokingly scolding her on chewing like that. It was his Ma's famous chicken pie, an old family favourite. They were all smiling, especially when his father came home. The old and wrinkled man was smiling gently, as he squeezed the young girl's shoulders, kissed his wife and winked at the young man. He was late, but no one minded, he was there and that was what mattered. They were family again, like they were each night when brought together by their mutual love of good food. I miss them.

Wait. Someone was coming; a blurry figure dressed in darkened clothing approached me cautiously. They were covered in sand and bits of mud, with brown and black versions of my own uniform smothered in it and blood. He looked grim. I wondered what he was going to do to help me, what even could he do? Probably just make me comfortable I guess, there's not much else to do. I'm going to die. He tilted his head, my hope increasing, and looked me up and down. His eyes focused on my wound. He crouched down over me, still with a wary expression, and patted my pockets. What is he doing? My mental questioning was answered when he pulled out my makeshift wallet, with pictures, a bit of money and letters in it, and started unhooking my weapons. He was just here to steal. I didn't move to stop him, it wouldn't matter in the end after all. I sighed, the last glimmers of hope drained out along with the breath. I've lost everything now.

Tears clouded my eyes as I watched the figure walk away and disappear. I'm surrounded by noises still, but I feel like I'm in a room alone, in silence. Painfully, I turned my head up to face the sky, feeling empty. I have no more meaning, just another dying pawn in a useless war. I can't believe I did this, I could've stayed at home! I may have felt a bit useless but I would still be alive to feel it, still with family to help get over it! It was all pointless now. I was. Is, was…

Everything become dizzy, blurry, and I felt almost nauseous. My vision started to go funny. Regret started to flood throughout me, entering one end, exiting another. Everything left me, my emotions, my rational thought. I couldn't breathe, it was running away from my lips as I desperately gasped for the last few intakes I could get. Life started to slip away from my useless body. Blinded and terrified, I took my last grating spindle of air.

And I died.

He came into this fight for justice, equal for all, and hoped to return to his loved ones. Although they'll not share another word or laugh together, from this movement of life to death, he can go home now.