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Sincerely,
Your Soulmate

A Hopeless Battle

    I can hear the muskets firing all around me, but it doesn’t affect me anymore. There was once a time when I would get startled as a musket ball flew by my head, but I’m too cold now to even flinch. This war has dragged on for too long. No one knows the cause anymore; they just fight and die. The next round of muskets fire around me, but it never really matters how much we shoot. The enemy advances, overwhelms us, moves on to the next battalion, and does it again. This is not how to win independence; this is how you kill an entire generation of good men. They have more men, more guns, and more supplies. We have no chance, but our “revolutionary leaders” think it’s better to send our men to die for the cause. “It’s better to die trying to obtain freedom than to die under the tyranny and oppression of another country,” all the officers say. I think they have just been brainwashed to say that. Every officer will give you the same iteration. I’m not even sure they know what they’re saying. The generals like to make speeches to raise the morale, but they talk bout “fighting for the cause” and how “dieing for our freedom is honorable” when I don’t see them doing anything of the sort. They sit comfortably in the warmth of their mansions as we freeze on a battlefield, barely able to grasp our muskets. The only warmth we get is grasping the warm barrel of our muskets while we reload or the feeling of a searing, hot musket ball burning through our flesh.
    The enemy creeps closer and our numbers dwindle. “RETREAT,” I can hear over the noise of the battlefield. Retreat? The battle has barely just begun. Off to my left I can see that it’s a regular foot soldier screaming for the retreat. Why is everyone following him? Has it come to the point that we follow orders from anyone who screams them? Have we lost so much dignity that we will flee and throw away all honor instead of standing on the battlefield and accepting our fate? I can’t believe everyone is acting so cowardly. I don’t agree with this, but if I don’t retreat with the rest, my life is all but over. Maybe we all must live to fight another day. I guess this is what it has come to. My feet are moving me, but I cannot feel them doing so. I trudge on as best I as I can, with musket balls flying all around me. How far could we get before the enemy consumes us all? They are not looking to win a battle or gain some ground, they seek the destruction of all men able to resist against them. They will not stop their pursuit. Retreat is just as hopeless as trying to stand our ground, it just changes whether the shot that kills you lands in your chest or your back. Each step I take brings me closer to my doom and then it comes. My body lays face-down in the snow. The white snow dims before my eyes. Was I shot? Am I dying? The world fades, darkness is creeping upon me. I do not wish to die.

A Field of Red

    Light, so much light. It blinds my eyes. Am I dead? Is this heaven? I feel cold. The feeling returns to my hand and my arm and my legs. A sharp pain rushes through my head, like I’ve been hit in the head with a shovel. I’m not dead. A little shaken up, I manage to stagger to my feet. Quickly scanning my body, I seem to be fine. No blood or bullet holes, just a cut on my forehead. I try to move, but nearly fall again. I stand upon a sheet of ice, which caused my fall. I look down at my feet and notice rocks protruding through the ice. I must have hit one of them on the way down and was knocked unconscious. But how was I not taken prisoner? Where has everyone gone? The field has been abandoned.
    I start my march towards the direction of my army’s retreat. A body of a fallen soldier lies strewn on the ground every couple of steps on my path. Men with musket balls in their backs lie shamefully in the ground. As I reach the top of the hill, my heart drops all the way back to the bottom. A field of death lay before me. My entire battalion lay dead before my eyes. They were gunned down on the run, sprawled across the snow. A field of snow covered in blood strewn with the bodies of my comrades, my friends. Just beyond the field of red, there is the enemy, regrouping after their easy victory. I collapse to my knees, not knowing what else to do. My army has been obliterated. I am the only one left. Every single one of my comrades lay dead before me, their freezing corpses spread out in the cold, lonely snow. This was not the way they were supposed to die. Why was I the one to survive? How would I explain that I am alive, yet every other man is dead? How could I go on living every day, knowing I should be mourned for like every other soldier? My ungainliness is the only reason I have survived; because I could not stay on my own two feet. How do I explain that all the others died in full retreat? It would devastate my village.
    I begin my trek home, but to what kind of welcome, I wonder. Will my parents be happy to see me alive or ashamed that I’m the only one returning? What will I tell them? I can’t break everyone’s hearts. What kind of home will I return to? My life can never be the same again. Why am I not moving onto the next world with everyone else? Why have I been cursed to bring shame to my family? My village is a one day journey from this desolate field. It will not be an easy day; no day will be. For how bad today has been, I dread tomorrow.

Home Sweet Home

    There’s my village, calm and serene. They all know nothing of yesterdaym that our army has failed and has been massacred. How could they know? With no one alive, no messenger could bring the news. I will have to reveal this gruesome event to everyone. I’m not sure I have come to terms with it enough to utter such a horror. Maybe this is all a bad dream and I will wake up any second. This nightmare is far from over. The lone soldier who is ‘privileged’ enough to return to his people, the one who will linger long after all the ones he fought with have perished. My journey is at last over for my body, but the journey of my soul is about to begin.
    Everyone looks at me as if I were a ghost. Each person’s gaze follows me until I’m well past them. No one says anything to me, they just silently think to themselves, “Why is he here?” Mothers cry as they realize I am the sole survivor. But how did I survive when no one else did? The look on all the fathers’ faces tells me exactly what they think. They hate me for surviving, while their sons perished. Everyone’s looks make it clear to me that they have gotten wind of the battle but not the shameful truth. I don’t know which is worse, the mothers’ inability to look at me or the fathers’ disgusted stares. The walk through town seems like hours, but in reality it only lasts a few fleeting moments. My house towers before me, looking like something alien to me. I stand before the door afraid to move.
    My mother spots me through the window and drops the pie she was baking. My father comes running to see what’s wrong and sees me. The look on his face ripped through my heart like a thousand bullets. One glance and I knew all the shame I brought to him. I know it sounds extreme, but I know in my heart he wishes I was dead like everyone else. Mother runs to the door and flings it wide open. “Oh my boy,” she exclaims, with her hands covering her face in disbelief. “When I heard the army was wiped out, I figured I’d never see you again. Oh, my boy my boy.” She begins to weep and runs up to me, embracing me tightly. I see my father walk past the door and into the other room to stoke the fire. He doesn’t even give me a glance. “Come inside dear,” my mother says with such kindness in her voice. “You must be freezing. Your room is just how you left it and I’m sure you’re famished.” I wish I could see even an ounce of kindness from my father.
    I walk through the door and feel the warmth of being home again. My father doesn’t even turn to look at me for a second; he just continues prodding the fire. Mother runs around trying to get everything set for me. “Have you said hello to your son yet,” she asks Father, walking back into the room with a fresh set of clothes. My father gets up and turns toward me. I’m a valiant soldier of the army, one who has fought through many battles and faced death on numerous occasions, yet I stand looking at my father more terrified than I had ever been on the battlefield. I’m not sure what words would come out of his mouth, but my heart ached to hear his voice. My soul told me he his first words to me would not be bitter, but then he spoke. “Why did you come back?” he asks with such coldness in his heart, and goes back to the fire.

Inner Toil

    I wake up in my own bed for the first time since I can even remember. I’m the only man in my army that has that luxury. My comrades woke up at the golden gates of heaven, while my soul awoke burning in one of the deepest circles of hell. My thoughts once again drift back to me being the only one. I am the only one living from my unit and, no matter what I do, that’s where my mind winds up. I wish I could eradicate these thoughts from my mind that have plagued my dreams and wake me in the night. This is the life I have returned to; nothing but pain and torture. The ghosts of the fallen poison my mind, haunt my dreams, and drain my soul. I have become an empty shell of a man. Will the brouhaha ever cease? Will my mind ever be able to cope with the death of my comrades? I wish it would all just stop.
    Breakfast tastes like ash in my mouth. My stomach clenches every time I try to eat. Sleep feels like just a way to pass the time. I get no rest from it. Every time I wake up I feel as if I just fallen asleep. Rest is a stranger to me. Sleep is just a means of creating darkness in my head, enough darkness for the nightmares to come out. I try to work, but tools feel useless in my hands. I spent too long in the army with a musket grasped in my hand, that now everything else seems so alien to me. I forgot my simple ways and transformed into a mindless killing drone. The way of the army is all that I know and a musket is the only tool I know how to use. My time in the army has destroyed my spirit and corroded my soul. Every part of me has been wounded. No part of me can return to normal. Each aspect of my life has been tainted by this long war. Will I ever get a respite from this turmoil? Can my mind ever be at peace?
    The cabinet slams. I flinch and grab for my gun. My heart beats like it did on the battlefield, racing with the rush of battle. Household sounds evoke memories of all my battles. My mind still lingers in that horrid time, upon those fields of death. To further my torment, I now must come to terms with the fact that I have taken lives. I have noticed new men haunting my dreams. My dreams are inhabited not only by my comrades, but also the enemy. The men I’ve killed lurk in my nightmares, along with my allies, each person latching onto my living state and damning me for my vitality. A door swings shut and, all of a sudden, my mind is back on the battlefield. I remember sitting in the bitter cold, struggling to get my finger around the trigger, as the enemy advanced upon us. It was so cold then, I didn’t know whether my legs were still attached by the end of a battle. I return from my flashback and I’m in the town, amidst the villagers. I spot a man in enemy colors and I drop what I’m holding. Instinctively, I attempt to find cover, but I regain my composure, before making too much of a scene. Quickly gathering my things, I rush back to my house and close the door tightly. These moments when my mind wanders back to the war must stop. I can’t live like this. I must retake my own mind. Between the angst from losing my comrades and the shame of returning home, my mind is left broken. I must fix the warp of my mind before I can’t differentiate night from day or meat from metal. When will my suffering end?

Broken Silence

    It’s the middle of the night. Everyone is sleeping soundly in their beds. I lay awake staring into the darkness of my ceiling; I find no peace under the shade of night. Even in total darkness I can see the images of all those dead soldiers. They’re burned into my head. They’re all I can see, never letting me sleep. I close my eyes, but that’s no escape. Closing my eyes just enhances their image. They stare at mecall out to me to join them. It’s so inviting and yet I am stuck among the living. What kind of man wishes death upon himself? Most people would be glad they survived, but I am just tormented. It’s been nearly a week I think. I haven’t truly slept a single night. Insomnia, awake when I want to sleep, yet when I’m awake I feel like I’m sleeping. Nearly one week and I haven’t said a word to my father nor has he said anything past his first, scathing remark.
    Another morning comes. My weariness grows, but I trudge on. My walks through town are awkward at best. Dirty looks and disgusted leers are upon the faces of all my neighbors. I feel as if I’m walking through a foreign country. There are no friendly faces, not even the face of my Love. I have tried to see her, but my shame has kept me from her. No father would have his daughter fraternizing with a shameful fiend such as me. I have truly lost everything: my honor, my friends, my mind and my Love. I promised her I would return and I have, but what good was returning to her without my soul. There is no end to my strife. With each passing day, there is only more added to my already overbearing state of agony. I can’t even talk to my Love to see if her passion still lives for me. Perhaps she is just as appalled at my actions, as everyone else. Maybe she wants nothing more to do with me and the shame I would bring to her. Possibly love won’t conquer all.
    The walk through the crowd feels like walking down death row. Everyone just gets out of my way, like I have some disease they don’t want to contract. The faces stare at me in antipathy. Finally I make it to my father’s blacksmith shop. The bell rings as I walk in. He stops to see who entered, but just goes back to work once he sees it’s me. The banging on the iron rips through my skull, driving the images of the dead further into my consciousness. My father, a proud, hard-working man, can’t even look at me in the eyes. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
    I place my rifle on the counter, trying to insinuate that it’s in need of repairs. He doesn’t stop working, but I get the feeling he understands. I stand there uncomfortably, trying to figure out what to say to end our long silence. Nothing seems good enough to be said. If only he knew how much it pained me that I haven’t spoken to him. His respect is what I have always coveted above all else. I just wish I knew why he was so angry with me. Was he upset that we are losing the war? That the revolution is failing? Did it disgrace him that I was the only survivor? Do I bring him shame by being here, so he can’t grieve for me like every other father? I wish I knew. “What do you need that fixed for?” my father asks, finally breaking the long silence just as I’m walking out the door. “Even when it worked you didn’t want to use it, too yellow.”

Paternal Confession

    I stand in the doorway, silent and confused. It seems fitting, that the only two things my father have said to me have been bitter and mean. He always was hard on me, pushed me as far as I could go. No matter what I did it seemed he expected better of me, but I grew to accept that. “What have I done father?” I ask turning and staring him in the face. “You disgraced the army!” he screams, slamming the hammer down on the anvil.
    “You disgraced this village and most of all you disgraced ME!”
    “So because I’ve survived, I’m a disgrace?!”
    “The other soldiers at least had the decency to die honorably and so did your brothers. You threw away your honor.” It finally dawned on me why my father is so appalled with me. He thinks I retreated and ran away while the rest of my army stood their ground and fought. How can I tell him the whole army was in full retreat, that I was last to retreat? Can I save my own honor by desecrating the dead soldiers’ good names? All I can do is stand there dumbfounded there’s nothing else I can do.
    Everyone in town looks at me with disgust because they think I fled and deserted the battlefield. They see me as a coward but the whole army retreated first. I didn’t even want to retreat. The only way to clear my name would mean exposing every single one of my comrades as cowards and tarnish their name. I can’t do it. How could I do it? “I’m sorry father,” I manage to say, stumbling over my words. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted.”
    “You may think that time will heal this wound, but don’t count on it. I don’t know if this village can ever forgive you I won’t.”
    “What do you want from me father?”
    “I WANT YOU DEAD!” my father screams at me, his face turning red with anger. “And I’m not ashamed to say it.”
    “All your other sons have perished,” I plead with my father just to show an ounce of compassion. “Can you truly feel no shred of joy to still have one among the living?”
    “I raised three sons to be honest, honorable and strong men I used to have a fourth son, but I don’t know what happened to him.”
    “I guess returning was not my best choice of action,” I stammer, knowing no amount of words will sway his bitter heart. “I thought maybe at least some part of you might be happy to see one of your sons again, but I guess I was wrong.”
    “Perhaps you should’ve found a place where cowards are welcome ‘cuz it ain’t here,” my father’s words continue to rip deeper into me.
    I think I liked it better when we didn’t speak.

Final Goodbye

    So the village thinks I’m a coward; they think that I fled in the face of adversity and danger? Could I tell them the truth that everyone fled? What is my honor worth? Can I seriously reveal the truth just to clear my name? Do I even deserve that? No no one must know. I can’t ruin the reputation of all those men, all my comrades, all my friends. They died as heroes to their country, who am I to take that away? It’s a secret only the gravediggers know, and that is the way it shall remain. But how can I live with the entire village hating me and thinking me a deserter? How can I expect the village to forgive me, when my own father will not? I believe he will never forgive me and I could tell in his voice that no part of him wishes me to be here. There is no worse feeling in the world. “I’m sorry,” are the only words that I can find to say as I walk out the door, a bastard child.
    For some reason, there is meaning now in all the dirty looks. They aren’t just disdainful stares. All the villagers hate me because I left their sons to die out on the battlefield. They see me and hate me for this. My face reminds them that there son is gone, yet I remain. My presence makes it so they can’t forget their sons; so they can not mourn them the way they should be able to. They get no break from their pain and sorrow because they always have to see my living face. They see me and they see the only person in the army who survived. Not because of luck, but because I fled and that brings my name eternal shame. If I wasn’t here they could move on, they could cope with their son’s death. Maybe I should never have come back, maybe I should just leave. There’s nothing left for me here. My father can’t stand the sight of me, the villagers shun me, I can’t see the one person I love, and my post-war trauma grows with every passing moment with every moment I don’t truly live. My insomnia grows every night and the vision of my dead comrades burns brighter with every day. Life is not meant to be lived this way.
    Where will I go? What will I do? There’s no place for me anymore. My life is in shambles and everything I once loved is gone. There’s nothing for me anymore. I must go. I know what I must do, and yet doing it will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Tonight I say goodbye to my home, my village, and the life that I once knew. It all ends here now.

The End of the Line

    An enemy fort is not too far from my village. I might as well go out just like my comrades did in my uniform with my musket in hand. The outpost is a two day’s journey and it will not be an easy one on my soul. When you stand on a battlefield, you know there is a good chance you won’t walk off alive, but there is still the chance that you can. I now go to the enemy fort knowing that I have no choice but death and that’s a sobering thought. This is such a final decision, yet I know it is right. There is no question in my mind this is what I must do. I will finally be at peace, once I face my demons.
    I trudge through the snow, not even bothered by the bitter cold. My thoughts drift back to my village. Will they be upset that they drove me to this? Or will they find it justice? Will anyone even care that I’m gone? Will my Love grieve for me? I try not to dwell on it too much, but what else is there really to think about. Knowing that I have no future means my mind can only dwell on the past. My past will haunt me no longer. At long last the enemy fort lies before me. Watchmen in towers sit on both sides of the fort and men stand by the front gate. There’s no chance to do anything meaningful.
    My legs start running and I don’t even realize it. I can hear myself screaming as I dash forward, not knowing why. I know the watchmen will shoot me once they get a glance at me. I’ve seen the enemy pick off our troops from further than I am now. Their riflemen are trained at hitting targets from a distance. It won’t be long now. I see the open gate and I realize I just want to get inside then I could be at peace. My feet are moving quickly the base is getting nearer. I hear the blast of a rifle. It rips through my left sleeve. Another shot. I hear is whiz past my ear. I can’t believe it. I may make it. I’m so close now. I can make it just a few more steps... BAM. Before my mind can register what’s happened, I’m lying in the cold snow. A pool of blood stains the snow, but I can see I was almost there two more steps. Just two more steps and I would have been through. I’ve met my end just as I wanted, but I couldn’t get those last two steps to put my soul at ease. I go now not with my soul at peace, but at long last my mind can be at rest.

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