The bullets fly by, and the screams of the dying fill the air. They promised that this would bring peace, that this would end it all. Maybe the end will come, but he doubts it will do any good.
Something moves and he brings the gun around. There, the enemy. His finger is on the trigger, sweat mixed with sand glides down his back. His focus narrows. Just him, just his target. He squeezes the trigger; his heart beats once, the enemy turns. He freezes. Fear crawls up his spine. Big blue eyes, scared, young.
Just a child, just a child.
His finger is resting there, a hair’s breadth between life and death. Between killer and savior. But orders are orders; the choice was never his to make. The trigger glides, the gun jerks. The child falls. No time to think, no time to dwell. A life is a life, just push on. They are almost done, almost there.
The bullet hit his throat, filling his lungs with blood, stealing his breath and his voice. He crumbles, his strings cut. Faces above him, telling him he will be alright. They shouldn’t lie, though he forgives them. Will God show him the same mercy? Will he ever be forgiven for the sins he has done?
Tears streak his face, washing away the mud and dirt. He thinks about his mother, his father, the sweet lips of the girls at home. The devil might be waiting for his soul, but he has already been to hell.