Something small I wrote for practice. I hope you enjoy!
I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist.
People crying for their beloved. Children looking up to you with frightened eyes. Eyes full of pain and suffering, eyes that should not have witnessed the horrors of war at such a young age. Children whose innocence was destroyed along with their country, gone forever. Corpses everywhere. Blood smeared over the walls and on the ground. Smoke and fire painting the sky crimson. Screams. Explosions. Run for cover, duck, hide. Aim and shoot. A soldier's reality. What the hell am I doing here?
The man collapses, the bullet hitting him right between his eyes. Without paying further attention to the fallen, I load my rifle for what seems to be the thousandth time. Peering through the tower's small square window, I wait and observe through my firearm's scope the sandy battlefield a dozen feet beneath me. My comrades depended on me to survive wave after wave of enraged Ishvalans. The platoon's lone sniper. I shouldn't even be here.
Civil war had begun about seven ago, and I had joined the military a bit less than three years after it had begun, at sixteen, after my father's death. I remember as if it were only yesterday. The hostilities began when one of our soldiers accidently shot one of their children while on patrol. Our two countries have been war-torn ever since. Exterminate any of them on sight, man, woman or child; orders were orders.
I've only been here for two weeks, when they called in reinforcements from the Military Academy's older students. I was in my final year and was twenty years old, so I was picked to go without any hesitation.
A blood curling scream distracts me from my gloomy thoughts. One of our enemies has an officer on his back and was brandishing something shiny. A dagger. I aim. And shoot. I had gotten used to killing now. I had witnessed so many deaths that it eventually became an automatic gesture. A cold, calculating, ruthless movement. A flicker of the finger on the trigger. Enemies fell limply and lifeless while I loaded my rifle with yet another bullet. I hated myself for this. But orders were orders, weren't they? I see the soldier I had just saved turn towards the tower I am concealed in, his eyes grateful, but tired. The eyes of a murderer. And I knew my own hazel irises were just the same.