The Boy
The boy stood still and stared out over the bloody battlefield. He was far too young to have been involved in a war, he should have been playing with his friends not killing people. But killing was his fate and he had done it well. His side had won. The war was over. A generation filled with hate, with blood. It was over, finally.
He continued to stare as a man in an official uniform came over to check on him. He paid no attention to the man, just to the horrible bloody scene around him. A child, no more than five years old, crying over his mother’s dead body. A father holding his little girl in his arms, her body still and lifeless. A husband trying to get near his hysterical wife as she tried in vain to get their son to wake up, he would never awake again. A father lifting a man’s body off his daughter, they had died from the same bullet as he raped her. A woman weeping over her husband’s body, he had died to save her. A family with no-one to cry for them because they had all died together. A bloody massacre.
The boy cried for all of these people. He cried for himself and for those he had lost. For those he would never know. For those he would never again talk and laugh with. For those who were so filled with hate they killed these innocent people. There was no bravery, no pride in his eyes. All that was there was sadness. Sadness for a world gone mad. He was just a boy but his innocence had been taken away from him. Never again would he play with his friends. Never again kick a ball just for the sheer joy of being young. It was his fate. His fate to live while others died. The war outside was over, he was alive but not unhurt. A war still raged within him. This scene would never leave his mind. For the rest of his life this scene would never leave him, it would haunt his dreams. No, there was no bravery in his eyes now, only sadness.
He continued to stare as a man in an official uniform came over to check on him. He paid no attention to the man, just to the horrible bloody scene around him. A child, no more than five years old, crying over his mother’s dead body. A father holding his little girl in his arms, her body still and lifeless. A husband trying to get near his hysterical wife as she tried in vain to get their son to wake up, he would never awake again. A father lifting a man’s body off his daughter, they had died from the same bullet as he raped her. A woman weeping over her husband’s body, he had died to save her. A family with no-one to cry for them because they had all died together. A bloody massacre.
The boy cried for all of these people. He cried for himself and for those he had lost. For those he would never know. For those he would never again talk and laugh with. For those who were so filled with hate they killed these innocent people. There was no bravery, no pride in his eyes. All that was there was sadness. Sadness for a world gone mad. He was just a boy but his innocence had been taken away from him. Never again would he play with his friends. Never again kick a ball just for the sheer joy of being young. It was his fate. His fate to live while others died. The war outside was over, he was alive but not unhurt. A war still raged within him. This scene would never leave his mind. For the rest of his life this scene would never leave him, it would haunt his dreams. No, there was no bravery in his eyes now, only sadness.
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on Saturday, December 03, 2005 at 5:59 PM.
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