Okay, here's the story.
There was a Remembrance Day Contest at my school, and I entered a poem into it, and got second place in district(that's against other schools in the province). There were three areas to enter into. A Black and Whiteor Color Poster Contest, Poetry Contest, and the Essay Contest. Now, I didn't know about the contests' in advance enough to enter all three successfully. So after I find out I placed second in district, the teacher that was helping with the contest suggested a little while ago for me to start early. That way, I could have more time to come up with ideas.
So I did, but I didn't know enough about the war, and what the men fighting in it felt while they fought against their enemies. So, he got together with me, and told me some stories from his father's point of view. Now knowing what I was trying to portray in my Essay part, I wrote this for practice. It isn't perfect, but I'm sure it I will get better.
It may be confusing, but please keep an open mind when reading. I wrote it in the 'second' point of view, although there isn't a 'second' point of view, only first and third, but it was quite a challenge to write like this, especially when I haven't before.
Now that I have gotten that all in the clear, read on my dear readers.
S/N: Try to think of the person in this story as Naruto... somewhat. This is not in canon, or the Naruto world, it is in the real world. He is fighting in World War II. There is a pairing, but it is not revealing at all who it is. It is up to your imagination who he is with. Oh yeah, in the war, he is like, eighteen or nineteen. When he is in reality, he is like, twenty-five or so. Yeah...
You stare vacantly at the wall, any and all sounds falling on deaf ears. A buzzing at the back of your mind feels like an itch that cannot be scratched, and the shadows in the room you are in, lengthen. A flicker of movement to your left. Your eyes move to follow it, and you are suddenly sucked into the images that burst forth from your mind…
… screams permeates the air, deafening roars of bombs drowning out your harsh breathing as you run. Run so very fast. You suddenly stop, panting, and watching in horrid fascination as a friend suddenly knows no more as a bomb lands directly on him. Blood splatters everywhere, staining your once prim, green, and neat military uniform an even darker shade of black.
The ground is a washed in blood, oceans of blood, soaking your shoes, and feet with every step. Machine guns can be heard, but you do not know which direction, or how many, the sounds blending into one another. No distinction can be told. Your blood pumps with every beat of your frantic heart as you look for somewhere to rest for but a second.
There. A hole. Just big enough for one person.
Just big enough for you.
You run to it, hoping and praying to God that the machine guns don't get you first. An explosion to your right throws you to the left, just narrowly missing the hole. You frantically crawl into the hole, squeezing yourself in as you shift your gun into your lap; subconsciously making sure it won't be in your way. Your breathing is frantic, and you are weary. Is it really safe here? How long can you stay there before it is no longer safe, and you are thrown into the chaos that is war?
You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear the cries of dying men all around you…
… you keep them shut as the noise disappears, replaced by the clinking of glass hitting the floor, and incessant dripping of liquid. Prickling pain in your right hand forces you to open your eyes. Sweat drips down your brow as you take in the scene before you with haunted eyes.
What was once a coffee cup of black coffee was now shattered into many pieces, black liquid spreading, and dripping off the table. Red mixes into the black, creating swirling vertex of blood and death that you are unable to take your eyes away from. Pieces of glass stick out of your palm as rivulets of blood dripped down the expanse of your hand and onto the table, to join with the dancing liquid.
You force your eyes away, looking around the room you are in. None of it registers. You can hear explosions in your head, machine guns, and screams of dying men, but you can not see them…
… wait. A dark green blur races past you, almost reaching the forest, but a well placed bullet quickly and painlessly took him down. An almost unheard thump announced his passing.
Your lungs are burning, your muscles aching, your head swimming, but you know you cannot stop. You cautiously peak over the top of the hole, at first seeing dyed grass, but soon your keen eyes pick up a field of dead bodies.
Nothing moved.
Your eyes move slowly over the field, seeing no movement. Even the wind stays still, and the world is silent. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, so very loud, and briefly wonder if the enemy can hear it. Why was your heart so loud?
There is nothing, no enemy, no ally. No in-between.
Your breathing hitches as you catch sight of a shadow emerging from the middle of the field. It rises, a cloak blacker than black covers its skeletal form, the edges frayed and burnt. It looks around slowly, basking in the bloodshed of war. You shift slightly, legs numb, and the… thing swiveled its cloaked head towards you.
You are paralyzed.
It watches you for a moment, apparently losing interest in the next, and disappears. Ever so slowly, feeling returns to your numb appendages. Then, you hear something.
Leaves rustling. You feel the wind on your sweat-soaked cheek, and eventually, life returns to the world. You cautiously rise into a crouch, eyeing the distance to the forest, and then eyeing the distance to the Trench.
The Trench is closer, and you are taking no chances. Rising a little bit higher, you take one look around before bolting towards the Trench. You dive into it, hitting the bottom harshly, and blackness converges on you…
… you feel soothing hands on your cheeks, and you open your eyes to the eyes of your oldest. They smile at you, but you don't smile back. You feel nothing, no pain, no happiness, no relief, no sadness, no anger, no love, nothing. It all blurs together in an undistinguishable tangle, and leaving, a void of nothingness left behind. You look to your hand, seeing a pair of tweezers in the hands of your lover pulling out shards of glass. The blood and the coffee were dried, creating a collage of different shades, each shade depicting the emotions of war.
Your hand is bandaged up, white cloth-like material looking at home against your pale, pale skin. You feel hands guiding you somewhere, and you are deposited into a comfortable chair. You sink into it, but you are tense. You are always tense.
They leave, but you take no notice. Shadows flicker along the walls; the television in front of you goes unnoticed, as your eyes are following the shadowy images that have appeared all around you. The images of long past seemed to take no notice of you, not even sparing you a glance as they run into battle. Machine guns and bombs are heard over the battle cries from dozens of different tongues…
… bodies drop like flies, adding more blood to the already tainted ground. Eyes stare at the sky, unseeing, mouth open in a silent 'o'. You feel a pang of something, but it does not register in your brain as you, too, rush into battle. Adrenalin rushes through your veins, allowing you to outrun all. It makes you high, giddy, the sudden rush of energy swirling through your body is too much.
Your comrades fall around you, never again getting up. Never again smiling. You feel another pang, but it is ignored as you continue on, eyes alight with righteous anger. You shoot at them, those bastards, those evil, slime eating bastards.
Your shot flies true.
They drop dead, and you continue on. You shoot more, and more, and more, and more, and more. You keep shooting until they are all dead, eyes unseeing into the earth, sky, or into nothing at all. They are all dead.
And this time, you feel no pang. You feel no remorse, no grief, no anger. Nothing. You feel nothing. An empty void. The shell of the person you once were.
You stare into the unseeing eyes of your enemy. They are of the same color as yours. They look no different, besides the obvious lack of life. Why were you fighting again? Is there a greater purpose to this unnecessary bloodshed and death? Why do so many have to be sacrificed?
The answer comes to your mind unbidden; freedom. You were fighting for the freedom of your people. For the freedom of your nation. For the freedom of your family. For the very sake of freedom that so many crave, but can not have.
You stay there, staring into the eyes of your dead enemy… no, not enemy. Fellow human being. Fellow man who had the misfortune of being born on the opposing side. Everything else around you fades, but the eyes stay, staring back into yours. Forever staring you down, forever haunting your dreams and nightmares…
… you blink, and the eyes blink back. Confusion mares your face. The eyes blink again, and you notice that they are not dead. They are full of life, of passion, of happiness, of sorrow. You see your gaunt reflection in the expressive eyes, and you do not like what you see.
The eyes move back.
It is your youngest. Full of naïve wonder, and joy. Full of life. Granted freedom. The youngest smiles at you.
You smile back.
Tell me what you think, I need feedback to help me get better on this new writing style I'm trying.