"Only the dead have seen the end of war."- Plato
The lightning above flashed and more rain came cascading down from the deep grey clouds that marred the sky.
As George got wetter with rain, the tears on his face were no longer distinguished; his cheeks were no longer stained. The sky cried for him, for his loss, for everything anyone had ever felt. The pain was not over.
He could not bring himself to read the words on the headstone- in a way he was grateful that the rain made it hard for him to see.
They said Fred was a hero. He died for his cause. They said he was noble, loyal, righteous and honourable. George didn't understand how people could lie at funerals. Yes, Fred was a good man, who wanted to see other people laugh. He wanted to be the cause of happiness. He wanted to have fun. So maybe they meant well when they said he was noble, but Fred would have laughed in their faces if he heard that.
George flinched as the night quietened around him, and suddenly he was scared. He forced himself to stare at the bright stone, the stone he was beneath. The flowers from yesterday had been washed over the grave, and as he knelt down to sweep them away with his hands, it stopped raining. He sobbed but was not filled with sadness. Instead, he was filled with hope.