Crimson Dust

[T-132]

I left the ridge, walking down the steep downwards slope I wondered if I would ever escape this loop. I was born into this...this life, if you could name it such a thing, and yet all I felt was death. Staring down the barrel of a heavy machine gun, looking into the eyes of some poor bastard walking through the open. Gone, in the flutter of an eyelid.

My cross-hairs bury a hole in his head, crimson spills on the dusty ground and life drains, eyes roll into the back of his head, staring blankly at his brain. A round flies past my ear, I turn and run. Spotted from the church tower, he stands with rifle raised primed the take the next shot. He never has the chance. A shell explodes mid air to the side, shredding his armour and flesh, leaving him slumped on the ledge, pumping blood down the side. I stare for a moment, then slowly make my way back to the ledge.

I slumped under the tree, hitting it hard with my back. Leaves flew down in the soft wind, one landing in my hand. I studied the intricate pattern, the veins that hold so much life. I crushed it in my fist. how can life be valuable if I can take it so easily? Life is cheap, a pull of the trigger and it is yours.

I stood up, trailing my rifle behind me by the barrel. It was still hot, burning my hand, but something inside me didn't care. At that moment, somebody broke cover from a house, trying to make it to the town centre, to the safety of the fountain. I clocked him with my scope, cross-hairs levelled to his face, keeping a little bit in front of him to account for the bullets speed. 400 meters, elevate a little, account for gravity. Then I saw his face.

16 at the most. No older than I was when I was called up for battle. National service, 4 weeks of training and they march you off to die. I was lucky, trained in sabotage and long distance engagement. Fresh faced, I killed my first man on my second day of combat, I forced my knife so far into his throat that it got stuck on his spinal column. I stood and watched him choke to death on his own blood. A sick sense of fascination flushed over me.

I pulled the trigger, the round fluttered into his chest, causing him to spin hard left before slamming into the ground. Another kill. Too late to say sorry, his family will never know how he died. Nobody ever sees it coming. The feeling you get when you take a life is next to that of ecstasy, but not after you have killed more men than you can count. The souls of the dead follow me around like a chain, slowing me down. My rifle slowly found my mouth as a tear rolled down my cheek and onto the black barrel. For all of the grieving mothers and fatherless children. For the lives lost, never to walk the fields of poppies. Goodbye.

"I am become death, destroyer of worlds"

-- This is my first piece on this forum. I often write in my spare time, some short stories some poetry. I am currently at work so I thought I might as well give it a shot. Please tell me what you think!

[JetLee9]

One question: Why are you posting this here, where almost nobody reads it, if you could post it to actual story sites where people like this kind of stuff?