Work Text:
The snow should probably feel cold.
It should probably be white.
It probably shouldn't be a deep crimson red.
It probably shouldn't feel like a pillow, made just for me, the snow beneath me pitiful sheets.
It probably shouldn't feel comforting to know that I at least have some sort of fucked up death bed
The pine trees look oh so tall, like they could reach the stars. The crickets scream and the owls announce their presence with deep hoots.
It's nice to know that the corpse I would leave behind would feed the oh so hungry animals.
It would feed the so, so cold soil.
It would be much more of use to the hungry forest than I was with a gun and a flag on the sleeve of my shirt, claiming me.
My hand slowly and shakily reaches my side, right where the bullet hit.
At least the young boy who shot me would get an atta boy for his contribution to his country.
But sooner or later, he and I will just become another number, another tally, another statistic to the amount of men killed in this silly battle.
My eyes drag up to the sparkling dots in the sky. Oh, how beautiful the night sky looks.
I've never thought to look at the stars before, they never seemed important when my life was on the line. But now, I regret ever pushing them aside when I knew that one day or another I would end up on the cold forest floor.
That I would end up one way or another in a puddle of my own blood.
I always thought that dying would be a loud and painful experience.
But it's rather peaceful.
A fox scurries by, the crickets scream their loud songs, the moon shines on my limp body.
Everything seems so peaceful without man.
How nice.
My shoulders shake and a cough forces it's way out of my throat, more of that warm blood joins the rest.
The pounding in my ears seem so much warmer than the cold unforgiving snow I am laying on.
But, soon enough it will become just as cold as the rocks that used to feel uncomfortable.
But now, all I want to do is lean into them and accept my place with the dirt beneath me.
I wonder if little Jones will miss me.
I hope he will move on. There is more to life than grief, I hope he will learn that.
But for now, I will take in my last breath and welcome the growing darkness.
It seems that another life will be taken by this hopeless war.
Hopefully the scared boy behind the gun will not blame himself for my death.
But what does a dead man know?