I didn't ask for this madness. When I sold my soul to the devil, it was for glory and honor, not this. When did this happen? That thirst for greatness was like a fever. We all caught it, and by the time it passed, it was too late.
They say push on. They, who haven't seen the depravity and destruction. To go forward is suicide, to go back cowardice. Cowardice. It rolls around in my mouth, dark and heavy, like the night sky. Is it cowardice to be tired of all this bloodshed, to want to spare a few more lives?
I have lost too much. Their empty eyes haunt me in the brief moments of sleep that I snatch. Their youthful vibrancy snuffed out like a candle to the accompaniment track of the others' wails. The hollowness of his face when he realized that he would live broken for the rest of his living days. How warm he felt when my bayonet ripped through his heart. None of us were prepared for this. We are hardened to it now, but at what cost? Our innocence, our souls, ...our lives?
They believe there is glory in fighting against our fellow man. Against someone who doesn't want this violence any more than we do. One moment here, one desperate second scrabbling to live for another day, that would change everything they hold true. But they don't see it, and that's the problem.
And as I fall back, I realize that this bullet is bitter-sweet. Death is kind enough to pull me from this twisted quest for honor, but I know that I am not the only one. My eyes are not the first to gaze at the implacable sun, nor will they be the last. Soon, I will just be another ghost in the trenches, just another sacrifice on this land consecrated with our blood, bullets, and sanity. My last breath breaks, and the butterfly's wings are frozen.