As the piercing sound of a bullet resonated through the skies, Liam Conlon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then continued writing. His hair slightly disheveled, yet suit still in impeccable form, his pen scribbled feverishly against the paper before him. His crystal blue eyes looked out in the distance for a moment, looking dejectedly upon the consequence of the Great War he fought for, the boy inside him wanted to scream, whereas the twenty-eight year old on the outside had to sit there and take it with as much resolve as he could muster.
It pains me, he wrote, to see such things before me. My heart can't take the pain anymore, my mind can't take the visions. I'm losing everything I have fought for, everything I once lived for. Why I keep going, keep struggling, is now beyond me. My world has been thrown to the bitter Prussian wind, everything I know now depending on God's good will, or good humor, whichever you see fit to view it as. Humor…I once knew that word, the meaning swelled within me once. It seems so long ago, yet, in reality, it was only a few short years since I had lived the life of the carefree child. That was until I was thrust into the life of a responsible man. That phrase still makes me laugh, though. Responsible man? Me? I guess I still have some humor, right? No matter how peculiar…
On the ides of November in this year of 1914...Why is it so many, including myself, feel the need to be formal when so many informalities are occurring around them. Its not like manners are needed when you shoot someone in the head, right? Perhaps its needed to feel as if what you are fighting for is sacred…or perhaps we pretend the man we just killed didn't die in vain. I'm not sure, and not sure if we ever will know why we act in such a way during times like these. It may just be to keep us going. After all, without the formality of it all we would just be animals killing animals. Then again, that's all we are.
The trick is to keep breathing, or so a dear friend told me as the boat left to bring me here. I never knew I would say feel this way, let alone write it down for anyone to see, but I miss New York. The streets of Brooklyn seem so much more inviting than the cruel German front. I miss the voices of friends, even the contempt of enemies. Its strange, the enemies I have now I know nothing about other than their nationality, and even that is subject to change.
He closed the journal before him, sighed deeply, and blew out the light in the tent. As the noise outside subsided, all the tension that surrounded him relieved slightly. One last bullet pierced the sky before Liam "Spot" Conlon passed out from sheer mental and physical exhaustion.
