7

A battlefield; where prospects of any hope long since vanished. The putrid stink of death and decay steams from the ground and sticks like the dirt marring your skin. You wrap yourself in thoughts of faraway places, a thin ratted blanket in the early morning when the silence is thick as the fog that crawls along the ground.

To have someone there, how vital he is, a part of your survival. The blood that seeps from his wounds is your blood, the shallow shaken breaths, and eyes that are black from the tar of war. You wonder if his heart shakes and rattles inside his chest whenever he doesn’t see you after being engulfed in the loud loud loud  booming sounds of big machines, the rip of souls being torn away from bodies and slung into the mud, the little pricks of hatred, ignorance, fear, anger, sadness, death death death scrap against your skin like the rugged bark of trees you crawl past in that deep forest.

The soil soaks it up greedily, sings the screams of many men and it echos shrilly in your ear until you feel so numb your thoughts are crawling crawling just like you.

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