Would it ever end?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just a splurge of descriptive writing i hope you all enjoy.

Submitted: April 07, 2017

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Submitted: April 07, 2017



Why did it have to happen now? Why did the plague of war wash over the world when he was in the prime of his life? The possibilities and opportunities he could have pursued were endless, had it never come. He could have acted on his schoolyard love, built a house somewhere near the countryside, but not too far from the city so she had somewhere to have fun. Images of their beautiful children frolicking amongst a field of dandelions on a mid August day flashed him by. Vivid enough he could feel the warm wind fill every pore on his face and flourish through every inch of his wife’s hair as her palm lovingly caressed his back. This was not the reality he lived, nor would ever experience.

The end of the world was in full swing, and it was determined to destroy any human who stood in its path. Hellish screams and ungodly screeches battled for sound supremacy over sirens that could be heard all throughout the city. Evil popping ensued day and night, warm or cold, it didn’t matter. The servants of hell flew high above his head, droning inconceivably ear-splitting vibrations through the air that disrupted the flow of blood in his fading heart. They dropped canisters of death that rattled the earth for minuets again and again. The crust of a once beautiful earth had given way to the corruption of evil. Smoke blacker than tar and heavier than ash plumed across the sky’s of the earth, blotting the suns holy rays of light from those who so desperately needed it for eternity.

He would not get to feel the warm embrace of the sun as his body returned to the poisoned earth.  There would be no one there to comfort him in the transition from this life to the next. Death was everywhere, yet he was alone. Not even the likes of the reaper wanted to be around his shambling corpse. This is what truly hurt him. He would never bask in the glory of defending mother Russia, but instead be reduced to a nameless corpse thrown in a mass grave, forgotten for all of history. His body that was left behind would not decay with pride in an immaculate coffin that glistened in the sunlight. No.

Bugs would consume his rotting flesh. Roots would punch through his bones and the weight of the dirt would grind him to dust. There was nothing to look forward to but the sweet release of death. He just prayed the pain would cease to increase. It must have been the walking that had aggravated the wound. Falling on unsteady palms, a bone rattling wave of fatigue made him fall flat to the ground. Twisting to his back, he moaned as the wound inflicted from a Wehrmacht regular tore from added stress. A bullheaded 8mm Mauser turned the left side of his abdomen into mush and sloppily cut flesh.

His body was aware of the wound, irreparable damage, and the impending death, but wickedly refused to die. The Mosin Nagant assigned to him on his first day of service appeared tattered and exhausted, yet had managed to outlive its user. He could feel blood begin to pool and spread from his wound as warm liquid began seeping through the back of his uniform. Panic would usually follow suit, but he accepted the closing stages of life with open arms as the pain began to subside. More Harbingers of hell flew overhead; more canisters plummeted down to the scorched earth below.

 The force delivered from the explosive payloads made his heart skip a few beats, but it resumed its death clock once the vibrations had dissipated. His fingers prodded into the dirt, bringing him to uncontrollable tears. This was not the soil of his homeland. This was not the ground that supported every step him and his two sisters took while living in Stalingrad. The dirt was tainted. It had a sour touch that would only poison whatever made contact with it. Taking a sharp whiff of the outside world, his fit of teary eyed madness only grew more intense. This was not the smell of Stalingrad. There once were olfactory delights such as budding flowers, baked goods cooling out on window ceils, and fresh dew filling the air. What once was had all disappeared. In its place were smells of death, rough air stagnant with blood, and pungent rot wafting in the wind. This alien world of hatred and crushing sadness was not his home.

He clutched his chest with a bloody hand, petrified as he could feel the steady thump of his heart become softer with every passing beat. Were Regina and Nadia safe? Or did they succumb to the war like millions of others? He wished he could see their faces one last time. He wished they were with him in his final moments, but was unsure if they could handle the pain of seeing their protector sprawled on the ground, weak, fearful, alone.

 He diverted his vision upwards in a hope to see the sun one last time, but instead, there was only black. It was not a distinguishable cloud of smoke, but only a giant mass of never ending toxicity infecting every able bodied man with the motive of slaughter. The noises of industrialized warfare began to fade as his blood pressure dropped. The once towering office buildings that boasted prosperity were gutted skeletons of their former glory. Why had the end of the world happened so fast? There were no warnings, just the tides of war that submerged entire nations in imperialistically fueled fits of rage. Old men systematically orchestrated the deaths of millions. It was the way of a dying world. The weight of his head slung his neck back to the right. There, he glimpsed over the figure of a German.

For the briefest of moments, his brain conceptualized the soldier as a hunk of Arian muscle. Blue eyes shimmered in the face of death. Beach blonde hair flowed in the winds of rot and spent gunpowder with graceful defiance. He stood proud with a shredded uniform, exposing intricate cuts of muscle sculpted by Roman artists. This image had faded fast from the stark sheen reality. He was no bigger than a growing teenager. His golden strands of hair were actually darker than the bark on an oak tree. His eyes housed two hazel orbs that were losing their glow. A uniform he was once proud to adorn was now caked in blood, most of it his own. Lost and wandering, he gave into the weight of the world and crashed to his knees on the cobblestone road before letting his body slump to the floor. His back was tattered with exit wounds large and small. Flesh and bits of organs secreted out of the said exit holes, but the boy was still breathing. He could not bear to see the gore as he re-positioned his head to look up.

 What was left for humanity after all of this? To what extent must the war reach before the old men decide it too detrimental to the well being of civilized society? Why couldn’t he have lived past all of this and helped rebuild? There would be no shortage of work then. He could rebuild the skyscrapers; make them taller and more immaculate than ever! Churches would need to be constructed as well. Houses of faith would bathe in the sunlight, created by his two hands. But, that was not the reality he slowly faded from.

 It didn’t matter now. His eyes grew heavy with despair. He had seen enough suffering for this life. It was time to depart from this world and embrace the darkness enveloping him. It would be just like any other night where he managed to fall asleep, but this run was a little different. He understood when he fell under the spell of slumber, he would never wake up.

 His body did not care if he wanted to live; it had served its purpose and wanted to rest as well. He panicked before the final nap, crying out for one of his loved ones, a comrade in combat, for anyone to be there when he died. The human soul was never meant to leave this world alone, but he was about to. There were no tears, no resistance, only acceptance.

His vision turned black as his eyes sealed shut. He exhaled one final time before his soul regrettably dispatched from the blood fueled machine that allowed him to participate in the experience of human life. Hundreds of thousands more would die just as he did, but that would not end the hell of war.

The smoke would still churn out death and harrowing sadness. Screams of hatred and hysteria would still grace the tip of the stratosphere. Blood would still flow as free as rainwater for months to come. For the battle of Stalingrad, there would be no true hero’s amongst the men and women who were armed with tools made to enforce the will of their countries, but only survivors.

© Copyright 2018 jrc1991. All rights reserved.

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