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The Diary Entry of a WW1 Soilder

Short story By: VesperSerenity

This is supposed to be written from a mad man's point of view.

Submitted:Nov 1, 2011    Reads: 23,424    Comments: 2    Likes: 3   

The Diary Entry of a WW1 Soilder.

December, 1914.

I am sorry if these words are scrawled. My hands are shaking with the adrenline. These dark, trench walls seem to be closing in on me, suffocating me. All I can smell is thick, dank smoke. Splatters of crimson blood drip here and there. I cannot bear to look. The sky is a dull grey, rain soaking my hair and clothes.
I am frozen to the bone. I am worried because I have lost feelings in both my legs, and it pains me to walk. My hands are as purple as the magled bodies lying about. I see rats the size of dogs attacking dismembered limbs, and the sight is almost to much to bear. Tatters of army uniform, like my own, are flown about everywhere as I peep above the trench. Thick, gasey aromas make my stomach churn as I do so. Some gets trapped in my windpipe and I splutter. Each time I do, I am terrified that I will see dark red blood.
All I can hear are exploding bombs, muffled by the trench and the screams of agony. They carry on throughout the night, and I go made from the constant cries of death. You can feel death here. It's mixed with the smells, seeped into the walls, dripped into the mud. Every hour, someone I know, well, knew, and respected died. The greif is now numbness. I cannot feel it anymore. I think about my family, day and night. My mind whizzes from: 'Will I die tomorrow' to 'how is my sister doing with her studies'. Telling the difference between sunlight and moonlight has become almost impossible now. the remaining friends I have now cling to life like a limpet in a stormy sea.
We discuss many things, from family to the guns on our shoulders.


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