Blade of Regret
02-07-2006, 10:24 PM
This is part of my novel, it does have some graphic language though...*shrug*
Soldier Boy
We fought for Skye, we fought because no one gave a second thought about us, we fought because we’re the ****heads who don’t understand, we fought because we killed and had anti-war ****s come tell us we can’t, we fought because all our anger and hate that had been stroked and fed by all the turmoil and all the **** we went through. That is why we fought. That is why we fight. Rouhn, Lester, Stien, Mc’Ivory, Steller, all of us, we fought and we killed. And in that barroom, through our drunken haze we crushed them, smashing them into the dirt that they threw at us, into the **** they name us, into the hell we live. We broke chairs and tables, bottles and bones, blood ran freely with the booze. The six of us against the world, and we were kickin’ their asses. We beat them until the police showed up, after a half-hour of fighting, not to forget the booze that sloshed in our stomachs and in full dress, we were lathered in sweat and blood, and tears. We cried over the loss of Skye, and the loss of Sargent Cliver. We cried because we were grunts, because this is what we were. We cried because we were a bunch of kids lost in a haze, we had been reborn. Reborn to kill, to follow orders, and to die following those orders. We cried because we cried. The only other thing I can recall are the bright blue and red lights spinning on the top of about fourteen cop cars parked outside the bar. All the rest is blackened.
Seven.
Skye’s funeral was three years ago. I’ve lost so much, and if he was here I’d still have hope, but it is lost, I am lost. Skye’s not here, Rouhn is MIA, Lester was killed trying to save Stien from a gut shot. Stien’s kidneys pumped poison into his heart before Lester hit the ground, they died together, like brothers. Johnston and Harrie are still POW, or dead. Mc’Ivory, Shratner, Dallington, Revveis, Galliheir, we’re the only ones left, after three years, we’re the only left. My heart pains me, my head pains me, I hurt myself. Tryan committed suicide two months ago, his father and brother died in a car accident. Slowly, I grab the magazine beside me, the rounds glistening through the hard plastic covering. I fit the magazine into my 45. I swallow hard. Fimler took a bullet for me, and died in my hands, telling me to inform his mother that the sun shines ever in Heaven. That was the first time I cried as my reborn self. A month and a half before Skye was killed. My hands are dripping sweat, my eyes moisten, I start to whine quietly. On the trigger my finger shakes. I ask for forgiveness quietly, to anyone who would listen. Rester walked in quietly, and saw me, the barrel lodged down my throat. He runs over and punches me on the side on my head. Quickly he pulls my gun from my hands, rips out the magazine, which he quickly stuffed into a cargo pocket.
“What the Hell is the matter with you? ” he screamed at me, spittle splaying on my face.
“They’re gone, all of ‘em, Rest.” I told him, fresh tears running down my cheeks, I didn’t cry this much as my old self. Rebirth has cause me more sorrow then one...any should suffer.
“No, we’re all here, Skye and Rouhn, Stien and Fimler, they’re all up there.” He pointed to the ceiling. “And you know that Cliver’s *****ing at you from Hell. We’re brothers here, ties cannot be broken by death, we always will be, no one can ever feel what we have felt, fight like we fight, curse like we curse, no one. You don’t need to kill yourself, but kill those bastards for
making us come out here. Kill those pricks that killed Fimler, and Stien, all of them.” Tears anew, I grasp Rester’s hand and put my left on his shoulder. We hugged quickly, but he pulls away and calls me a dumbass and a pussyboy , then he walked away, but not after picking up my 45, which he looks down the sights of and puts on his belt. I laugh and pull out a bottle of Jack from my ruck and take a shot.
It has been two week since my suicide attempt. I haven’t been sober for two weeks. I absorb drink like a bar rag. I’ve had double vision and nausea, headaches and green apple two step for two weeks. I puke up all that I drink and eat, yet I can take the booze without a second thought. It has finally hit me, none of them are coming back, not Fimler nor Cliver, Not Rouhn nor Lester. This is how I react to that blow, I swallow my pride with cheap gin, my courage with crusty beer, my sense with strong whisky. I kill men, I eat their bread, I rape their women, and do it again. It is all a routine. This is how my life will be, I lose friends while I kill men. I kill twenty men for every friend I lose, then drown my memories with scotch. This is what I do, this is what I’ve become, the killer, the beast, man. In my sleep, I see blood. Rivers of blood, rivers of tears. Blood is no different then your tears, you bleed when your hurt, you cry when your hurt.
Soldier Boy
We fought for Skye, we fought because no one gave a second thought about us, we fought because we’re the ****heads who don’t understand, we fought because we killed and had anti-war ****s come tell us we can’t, we fought because all our anger and hate that had been stroked and fed by all the turmoil and all the **** we went through. That is why we fought. That is why we fight. Rouhn, Lester, Stien, Mc’Ivory, Steller, all of us, we fought and we killed. And in that barroom, through our drunken haze we crushed them, smashing them into the dirt that they threw at us, into the **** they name us, into the hell we live. We broke chairs and tables, bottles and bones, blood ran freely with the booze. The six of us against the world, and we were kickin’ their asses. We beat them until the police showed up, after a half-hour of fighting, not to forget the booze that sloshed in our stomachs and in full dress, we were lathered in sweat and blood, and tears. We cried over the loss of Skye, and the loss of Sargent Cliver. We cried because we were grunts, because this is what we were. We cried because we were a bunch of kids lost in a haze, we had been reborn. Reborn to kill, to follow orders, and to die following those orders. We cried because we cried. The only other thing I can recall are the bright blue and red lights spinning on the top of about fourteen cop cars parked outside the bar. All the rest is blackened.
Seven.
Skye’s funeral was three years ago. I’ve lost so much, and if he was here I’d still have hope, but it is lost, I am lost. Skye’s not here, Rouhn is MIA, Lester was killed trying to save Stien from a gut shot. Stien’s kidneys pumped poison into his heart before Lester hit the ground, they died together, like brothers. Johnston and Harrie are still POW, or dead. Mc’Ivory, Shratner, Dallington, Revveis, Galliheir, we’re the only ones left, after three years, we’re the only left. My heart pains me, my head pains me, I hurt myself. Tryan committed suicide two months ago, his father and brother died in a car accident. Slowly, I grab the magazine beside me, the rounds glistening through the hard plastic covering. I fit the magazine into my 45. I swallow hard. Fimler took a bullet for me, and died in my hands, telling me to inform his mother that the sun shines ever in Heaven. That was the first time I cried as my reborn self. A month and a half before Skye was killed. My hands are dripping sweat, my eyes moisten, I start to whine quietly. On the trigger my finger shakes. I ask for forgiveness quietly, to anyone who would listen. Rester walked in quietly, and saw me, the barrel lodged down my throat. He runs over and punches me on the side on my head. Quickly he pulls my gun from my hands, rips out the magazine, which he quickly stuffed into a cargo pocket.
“What the Hell is the matter with you? ” he screamed at me, spittle splaying on my face.
“They’re gone, all of ‘em, Rest.” I told him, fresh tears running down my cheeks, I didn’t cry this much as my old self. Rebirth has cause me more sorrow then one...any should suffer.
“No, we’re all here, Skye and Rouhn, Stien and Fimler, they’re all up there.” He pointed to the ceiling. “And you know that Cliver’s *****ing at you from Hell. We’re brothers here, ties cannot be broken by death, we always will be, no one can ever feel what we have felt, fight like we fight, curse like we curse, no one. You don’t need to kill yourself, but kill those bastards for
making us come out here. Kill those pricks that killed Fimler, and Stien, all of them.” Tears anew, I grasp Rester’s hand and put my left on his shoulder. We hugged quickly, but he pulls away and calls me a dumbass and a pussyboy , then he walked away, but not after picking up my 45, which he looks down the sights of and puts on his belt. I laugh and pull out a bottle of Jack from my ruck and take a shot.
It has been two week since my suicide attempt. I haven’t been sober for two weeks. I absorb drink like a bar rag. I’ve had double vision and nausea, headaches and green apple two step for two weeks. I puke up all that I drink and eat, yet I can take the booze without a second thought. It has finally hit me, none of them are coming back, not Fimler nor Cliver, Not Rouhn nor Lester. This is how I react to that blow, I swallow my pride with cheap gin, my courage with crusty beer, my sense with strong whisky. I kill men, I eat their bread, I rape their women, and do it again. It is all a routine. This is how my life will be, I lose friends while I kill men. I kill twenty men for every friend I lose, then drown my memories with scotch. This is what I do, this is what I’ve become, the killer, the beast, man. In my sleep, I see blood. Rivers of blood, rivers of tears. Blood is no different then your tears, you bleed when your hurt, you cry when your hurt.