Schling.
A rivulet of hot blood trickled down from wartorn hands, staining the musket gripped tightly within grasp. Eyes veered down, unveiling the bayonet lunged through my chest. It didn't hurt. The andreneline--or acceptance tamed the pain.
My hand reached for the edge. Sharp. Strength had fleeted. Knees buckled. It wasn't coming out, nor did I want it to. Attention shifted toward light footsteps.
Despite the internal blurry, a small frame could be depicted. My killer was small. Fragile. With youthful eyes, a stark contrast to the backdrop of distant explosions.
"Wh-" words turned into a growl.
My killer retreated backwards in a scurry, then fell as his small feet had trouble finding ground. Fear turned into tears. This must be his first sight of blood.
What are you doing here?
I wanted to ask. A question someone should have asked me at his age. A question one could ask now. A question I would have no awnser to.
The child's oversized uniform fluttered as he rose to sprint. A sense of relief washed over--it was over. Numb fingers brushed against the red lining of a killed soilder. One I had slain.
Am I sorry for him?
My blurry eyes showed he was much like me, young, forced, told that the enemy was the one in a different uniform.
Enemies, huh.
No, my true enemies were the ones who had drafted me to this god-forsaken landscape. And yet, I was dying for them, fighting for them…
Its almost funny. Why was I fighting? For what?
Thoughts only gnawed at the psyche. My breaths shortened, matching the rythm of the heart.
The sweet melancholy of bloodied screams reached my ears, a sound I would soon escape. My hand clutched even tighter, solidifying its grip on the rusty firearm.
"I have held a weapon for so long, I can't even let go," my wavering words were followed by solemn chuckles.
Six years, I had lived on the battlefield, dodging death by a hair more times than I could count. But I had taken enough souls--it was time.
My skin grew numb and cold, yet I could still feel the approaching embrace of death. Soot filled my eyes, blood filled the lungs.
My body recognized the harsh, war-torn ground below. Droplets of strength evaporated, but the grasp on the musket still remained tight.
There was a distant commotion of clanging bayonets mixed with explosions of dynamite; such sounds demanded attention. My mind wandered.
Has war always been this loud?
Thoughts settled as the inevitable grew closer.
The inevitable didn't approach; rather, something did. Something vile.
The air became imbued with a palpable density. It was bloodlust, so deep it scraped at the soul.
An audible pair of footsteps was accompanied by the unnerving stench of death. The smell alone caused my nostrils to flare in a way they never had before.
The stench and footsteps only amplified as the figure drew near…
Then I knew…
Though my body was on death's door, I found my grip gaining strength, a strength that could only be attributed to pure anger.
It was a Crow…
Cloaked in an ominous dark robe and donning a bird-like mask with hollow, piercing red eyes, the demon exuded an eerie, otherworldly presence that chilled the air around him.
I had only seen a Crow once, a wretched being it was. On the Northern Front; the Death Isles. A battlefield where death was more common than life. The battlefield my eyes saw a Crow massacre a battalion in a swing.
A damn Crow.
Thoughts became clouded with rage, a rage secretly laced with terror.
With a musket gripped tight enough to pierce the skin, with every bit of musterable strength, I lifted my fatally wounded body and aimed at the Crow.
"I don't care what you wretched monsters can do. Come any closer and you're dead." I was already dying, but the thought of that monster unsettling.
It remained motionless.
Maybe due to the pitiful threat or the fact that it could massacre entire armies within the twitch of an eye. But something inside felt as if it had another reason. I could tell.
The cloaked figure had eyes that I had seen far too often, the eyes of someone who had just lost someone, eyes devoid of human emotion.
My eyes…
For a moment, the relentless grip on the firearm loosened, hands stopped sweating, and racing thoughts soon slowed down.
Are we the same?
The unknown figure brought his face toward mine, its eyes meeting mine, his breath containing the same stench of death his steps had before.
Then it struck, his eyes struck, his piercing gaze. His uncanny ability to alter the atmosphere with a simple blink they all struck gave clarity.
We weren't similar, not in the slightest.
I could be considered an adept fighter. But it still wouldn't amount to him. Not in the slightest.
Within the flap of a hummer wing, a pair of large, unforgiving hands connected with my diaphragm. Somehow death wasn't just approaching, but was rather behind me.
"Gh—" words struggled to escape.
Once more, he didn't move.
Why isn't he speaking? I scrambled to collect my thoughts. But puzzling thoughts only wasted time and clouded the conscience.
And I found mine quickly leaving.
In a desperate attempt, my hands clawed at him to no avail. My contaminated lungs began gasping for air in a futile struggle for survival.
Surrender was tempting but with the monster in sight, it only enraged. But the slim chance for survival was even more enticing.
Rather than encountering a growing fear, it was anger.
With newfound strength amplified by adrenaline, another escape attempt ensued. This time more promising than the last. Anger soon turned into bitterness as my soot-stained hand approached an undefeatable giant.
He was strong. Too strong.
The man draped in black clothing and a beaked mask only tightened his grasp further. His unconquerable stench clogged the nostrils, blood rushed to the head, andmy vision began to fade.
Then I was cold. Darkness.