The soldier was charging, following his comrades. Rifle in hand, he advanced on the enemy, even as they took cover behind a demolished vehicle. As the skirmish began, time seemed to slow. One shot. An enemy soldier slumped back, head caved in from the bullet his comrade had fired. A second shot. His comrade fell to another of the enemy. A grenade exploded, disemboweling one of his group and killing several others with shrapnel. More shots, more deaths. Blood spurted into the air in pseudo-artistic form, while gore stained the ground and crimson vitae flowed from wounds.

The soldier raised his rifle to his shoulder, yelling as he fired. His shot ricocheted. Another shot sounded. There was a sensation like a punch in his abdomen. He was hit, he realized as he went down. He fell onto his side, the shock taking away from the pain for some time. He merely grunted from the impact. But the pain soon bled back. He briefly noticed that all his comrades were dead, bleeding from gaping wounds.

Now, the soldier was dying. Crimson blood stained his uniform as blood poured from the wound in his stomach. He grimaced in pain, with the knowledge that his life would soon end playing upon his mind. His vision was blurred, his hearing muffled. He was aware of fellow humans standing over him. But who, friend or foe. He was going to die. Did it matter? He struggled to sit up from his position on his side. To no avail.

The bullet had torn through the soldier’s stomach, rupturing it. Even now, hydrochloric acid was spewing through his insides, burning, eating away at the vulnerable flesh that made up the remarkable biological structure that was the human body. The agony was almost unbearable, like being seared with the hottest fire. The hot piece of lead still lodged in his body did not help. Blood oozed from his mouth.

The soldier wanted to cry, to weep at the thought of his own demise. He was only eighteen, barely a man, and now his life was ending. It was unjust, nightmarish, to know that he would not see his family again. Tears wouldn’t come. He had shed too many already, endured too much in the months of war he had witnessed. He had already lost a great many friends in the hell that was Stalingrad, and he supposed that after he passed on, many more of his friends would die. He coughed.

Was there life beyond the veil? Was there hope for him? Would he perhaps see his friends, and eventually, his family in whatever place lay behind death? Or would there be simple oblivion, nothingness, ceasing to exist? Once afraid, the soldier couldn’t find the energy to be terrified of his own death. As his heart slowed from blood loss, the soldier began to feel cold, drained.

A mother’s love never to be felt again, a father’s steadfastness never to derive strength from, a sister’s smile, never to be delighted in again, a hope for the future cruelly extinguished in the harsh storm that was war. Death took everything from the soldier. Everything about him would soon be extinguished.

Breathing was becoming progressively more difficult, as stomach acids began to chew through his lungs. The pain was becoming nearly unbearable. While the thought of his own demise did not force tears to his eyes, the pain did. Grey figures stood before him. He looked up, grimacing in agony. He reached up with his hand, grasping at the figures. Whether or not it was in anger, defiance towards the injustice of those who had pulled the trigger that ended him, or if it was pleading with them to save his life, to treat his wounds, not even the soldier could tell. His mind was blurred. Everything was fuzzy as the blood left him and his body gradually became starved of oxygen.

One enemy, eyes filled with emptiness of one fulfilling a job not desired, leveled his submachine gun at the soldier’s head. His enemy’s comrade batted the weapon away. The soldier stared on, barely comprehending. The second addressed the first in his harsh language, the language of the fascists.

“” The second exclaimed.

The soldier winced.

“” The first replied harshly.

The second hesitated, then nodded, brown eyes radiating sadness and regret.

The soldier seemed distant in his own mind, watching from a afar, even as the gun barrel once again turned towards him. A single tear trickled down his face. He stared into the eyes of the one who would be his final end. His enemy sighed imperceptibly and twitched his finger. There was a single flash, and the soldier was no more.

Author's Note

This idea struck me recently, and I didn't want to make it into a oneshot. Consequently, it is a chapter in this story. I apologize for the lack of length.