Crisp green grass surrounds my body as I lie on the ground, the blades reaching far above my head, encircling a view of a clear blue sky as I stare upwards. With every tiny movement I make, I feel the plant life around me tickle at my ears and cheeks. I can feel the heat of the summer sun beating down on me. It is hot enough that I acknowledge it, but the cool breeze dismisses my thoughts of going inside. I can smell the freshness of the air, that humid, fragrant smell of the daisies and the dirt. I can hear the buzzing of the flies, of the bees, the gentle flutter of each butterfly. I can hear the birds singing against the wind's slow hum on the grass.
There is only a quiet rustle as I move my hand up to entwine my long fingers in my choppy haircut. If I remain still enough, I can hear a door opening and closing in the distance. You can tell from the thump and clatter that it is an old door, wooden and heavy. The old, rusty handle has nearly detached itself from the nails plunged clumsily into the door, a half-assed job.
I know the sound of the door. I know the feel of this place. This is home. This was home. The endless fields behind a quiet cottage. If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear the bustling of the village, the markets of happy people only a few miles away. In fact, I know that if I stand up, I will be able to see the cottage-filled town in the distance.
I hear my name being called, summoning me for dinner. I expect to hear my mother, but it never is. It is a man's voice, cheerful and bright, and I can hear the smile on his face as he says my name. I sit up, short blades of grass and dry dirt stick to my hair as I turn to look at him.
An ethereal glow is emitted from his body. His gentle smile, his warm brown eyes, his scruffy chocolate locks. As he speaks to me, his dark freckles move with every syllable. I can see the words he is saying to me, but for some reason I can no longer hear him.
I can no longer hear the slow buzz of the insects, the crunch of the ground beneath my feet, or the tinkling birdsong. I cannot feel the warmth of the sun against my pale skin. I turn to look at the world around me, or more appropriately, what is left of it.
The long grass has been disintegrated, burned to the ground, along with every tree in near sight. The animals have fled, the ground is bare. I turn to the direction of the village, the cheerful village with the bakers and the butchers, the seamstresses and the florists, only to see what I already expect. The screams and cries of the women and children as they flee their houses deafen me, the slow thud of the giants' footsteps make me shudder. I look at my house, that tiny, innocent cottage. I watch as my mother, a beautiful and serene young woman, pushes her child out of the house. I cannot hear her cries and her pleas, but I know what she has told this small boy. She has given him lots of food and water, enough for a week or so, and told him, amidst her sobs, to run. To flee to the inner walls. She says she will meet him there, and that she will find another way for herself to get there. She claims she will only slow him down, and that he is better off hiding without her. She tells him that once they meet again, he can join the Military Police, and make her proud. She kisses his forehead, and watches him grin and nod, ever the enthusiast, saying that he'll see her soon. He hugs her legs, and runs away. I know the speech off by heart, and I remember waving back at her. I continue my journey over the hill, not looking back.
I'm glad I never did.
I can feel tears roll down my cheeks at the memory, and shudder. I know what is next.
I turn to him, clenching my fists and feeling the bitten-down nails slide unevenly against my rough palms. He smiles at me, but as his lips tilt upwards, I see the skin fall away. His left eye begins to dull, his right one having rotted away. I see his skull, his broken ribs. I see the blood spill from his body, and I try to look away. But I can't. Because I did this to him. He tried to save me, but he only made it worse somehow.
There is no sound as his body slowly falls to the floor, his corpse falling against a filthy wall. I do not realise the change in setting, and I always wish against it. I look around, feeling the cloth absorbing my shallow breaths as I look at my fallen comrade. I sense the weight on my body get heavier as I feel the soft cloth of my uniform rub against my skin. My gloved hands are outstretched in front of me, clawing at the air. My entire body trembles as I say his name, and I can hear his voice echo around me, juxtaposed only by the footsteps against cold slabs of concrete.
"You're not strong... But your orders were right. That's why I could run... That's why I am alive."