Finding the Joy in Little Things

I don’t know what got into me. I counted the guys and guns. I knew the artillery and the fire power. I knew full well what kind of things they could do. How capable they truly were, but for some reason beyond my control, I didn’t stop.

Why? I was hopelessly outnumbered. They had the advantage, the supplies, the positioning, and the balls to gun me down without a second thought. All of them shot. Every single one. All twenty-four troupes opened fire on the idiot who thought screaming down the yell would win them a war.

Stupid didn’t begin to cover it. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t have a plan. Yet I still chose the incorrect road. I wasn’t suicidal. Hell, I wasn’t even a man who would usually fight. I hated violence and never found myself throwing hands just to prove a point. While war created the one atmosphere that seemed appropriate to murder and kill, I found that I despised everything about it.

The gunpowder pop. The bullet travel. The sink into flesh. And the blood that spit out like a raging lizard unhappy with my life choices.

But, there was a special kind of accomplishment and power whenever I gripped my rifle. Knowing that one pull of the trigger could, and mostly likely would, destroy a life. The fact that I could have held that trigger and ended a line of twenty people seemed…

Right and wrong.

The battlefield made it right. The power felt wrong. I guess at this point it didn’t matter. I never had the chance to fire the weapon. I’d forgotten the safety.

And got lit up. No one got a head shot so it was another ten minutes before I bled to death.

My body turned to useless jelly, but my mind was blasting its last experiences. I could count the bullet holes. I could feel them dragging me across the dirt and chunk me into a ditch with a bunch of corpses.

Nothing like a trojan horse. Once I resurrected they were going to be so surprised.

It made me giddy!

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