The Aftermath of a Massacre

by staringatstars07

A simple oneshot I wrote based on the cover image. If I had to place it, I would say the story takes place in 1943, after the massacre of the Acqui Division. The division consisted of men who decided to resist German control. They were taken as political prisoners and then massacred by the German soldiers who held them.

There wasn't enough oxygen in the air. The dying gasps of the men around him tore into his lungs like a pack of rabid wolves, ripping the air from his flesh, pawing his throat to pieces in the process.

There was too much smoke in the air, too much blood evaporating from the saturated dirt to make breathing anything other than a constant reminder of what his own men- of what he had done.

In his arms, someone who appeared almost too young to serve breathed in whispers. Nothing could be done to ease the suffering of the shorthaired brunette in his arms because not even a bullet to the head could kill him… But he could feel pain.

It was 1943 and Germany had been ordered by his boss to render Italy incapable of fighting. How many men had had to die for that order to be realized? In the distance, several strangled shouts were cut off by the report of a machine gun. Ludwig turned just in time to see the Italians slump to the ground, red blood pooling around them like melted wax. Even if it wasn't really hot, he was sure it would burn him if he touched it. Their blood would attack him even if they no longer could. Because Italy hated him.

A startled cry, like the mew of a frightened newborn kitten, brought his attention back to the boy in his arms. He was covered from head to toe in wounds, and his face, lips, and hands were colorless.

Even knowing the wounds were from him, caused by him and his men forcing themselves upon him, he still wanted to heal him, to protect him.

This whole war, everything it was about, was complete and utter nonsense. A pure race? What was that? Who decided what was pure and what wasn't? And why did his boss think he was the one who had the right to decide?

It wasn't possible. It wasn't sane or fair or right or- But then, nothing ever was, was it?

Someone help.

He can't disobey his boss.

His boss…

Or his people…

Someone please help him stop himself.

Ludwig cradled Veneziano's unconscious form close to his chest, rested his forehead in the sticky, warm blood that coated his cerulean uniform, and shed his first and only tears for all the lives this pointless war had taken.