The eyes weren't sunken. They bulged out, as if to say "Here I am. If you need me, I'll be in Hell. I am here because this is Hell. Here I am." The neck was thin but wide. The hands large. A tough figure. Perhaps a teacher, a preacher, an athlete. The jaw was hanging, skin stretched and sagging. One brown eye, the other diluted with blood. An ear gone, a bloody stubble in place. The chest is broad, blood trickling down it. One shoulder is torn, bone shyly peeking out, the muscle doused in blood. So much blood.
I killed this man. I did it.
"Bam, dead," a comrade told me, "Just bam, down, dead. You might feel sorry for the guy. Good job, mate."
A scratchy stubble of a goatee. Once-white teeth, doused in red. Gnats buzz above the loose jaw. The holy book in his pocket absorbing the liquid.
"Man, stop staring like that. Creepy."
He was a man of the book, but worked his muscles often. Smart, attending holy days, but not overly dedicated to his God. The book was a good luck charm. So was the picture of a girl in another pocket. His girlfriend, his sister, his friend, his coworker, who knew. He was dead, who would know anymore? No. I killed him.
"Look, you just need some time, man. Just... just to cope, ya know?"
A shaved head, but he was visibly balding anyways. The goatee on his slacken jaw the only hair on his head. He was self-conscious about his baldness for the first few weeks of it, but got used to it. It was a new definition for him. Definitely. He joined the war not out of choice. Another draftee. Another man to fight a war that was not his, but that threatened his family, his town. He was forced into it, even though he wanted to stay home. He only wanted to study, or to preach. Whichever it was. People who listened to him lecture or preach would barely miss him for the first few days. After a while they would realize he isn't coming back for a while. Perhaps never.
"Look, mate, boss said he'll give you five minutes, then we're leaving. Alright? Five minutes."
The girl is an encouragement. He would have ran away from the war, but the girl urged him on, even if she didn't know it. She was a source of courage, but cowardice. A courageous man to fight in battle. But he didn't want to, did he? No, he was a coward. This girl reminded him of that. He only wanted to redeem himself in her eyes. In his family's eyes. In his town's eyes. In the entire God-damned country's eyes. He isn't here for glory. He's here because he has to be. He must.
But now he isn't. I killed him. He's dead. I killed him.
Author's Note: So this is my first attempt at a real graphic image of a dead person, and the denial of the killer, set in a war setting. I tried to humanize the narrator's enemy. I might elongate this concept into a much larger chapter, perhaps 1.5-3k words in length, but for now it's just an experiment.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
