The dead man

The mans lower lip and teeth were gone, his right arm was a shredded red mess, one of his cheeks was caved in and the other looked strong and bristly. From under his slick, black hair red ooze seeped and pooled. His shoulders were thick and muscular.1

He was born in a large but impoverished city. From a young age he was taught to fiercely defend his honour and the honour of his family, he was taught to pray and respect the word of god and country. 2

He lay face up on the side of the road, a powerful, dead man of about twenty. To the side of him lay his rifle, lifeless and forgotten, just a chunk of black metal without its wielder. Across his uninjured chest lay a bullet proof Kevlar vest and on top of that a belt of ammunition. On his finger was a plain golden ring.3

At an age somewhere between boy and man he began to take an interest in politics and began to look further than his next meal. As he lay on his mat at night he imagined himself a soldier defending his country from unwanted invaders. This he believed to be the greatest privilege and his highest duty. Before sleep he prayed that he might soon leave to join the struggle.4

His lower lip and teeth were gone, his right arm was a shredded red mess; on his finger was a plain golden ring. His left foot was hanging at a strange angle not quite off his calf but not quite on either, the cartilage and bone in his heel was crushed and unrecognizable. His right leg was missing a chunk of the thigh from a large-fragment wound. His abdomen remained hard and smooth, protected.5

At seventeen, while preparing to leave the city of his birth he met a young woman and fell in love. She too was faithful to god and country and he saw her as his soul mate. She had great fear for him but knew that in his heart he was drawn to the war raging around them. As a man of god he did not touch her until they were married, the day after he left the city while she stayed, always waiting for fresh news to arrive.6

The blood beneath his neck had turned into a thick black slug and stained his uniform. His head was slightly ajar so he appeared to be staring down the road as the convoy of tanks and military vehicles passed. Around him stood a group of invading soldiers, smoking and laughing. Occasionally they would glance his way and fall silent before remembering themselves and retuning to joking with their buddies. All but one who sat staring at his still form.7

Some time after he enlisted he was assigned to return to the city of his birth. On his way he travelled in the back of a sympathiser’s truck and I killed him. 8

The truck was stopped to be searched at a checkpoint into the city; he panicked and attempted to shoot his way out, I reacted by instinct and threw a grenade, I watched his eyes widen, saw him turn to run but it was too late.9

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up from where I was sitting. “You’ve got to stop staring, it was us or him”
“Come on mate, this was a righteous kill”10

I looked back over to the man I had killed.11

His lower lip and teeth were gone, his right arm was a shredded red mess; one of his cheeks was caved in. On his finger was a plain golden ring and abandoned next to him was his rifle. He was a powerful man of about twenty.
I had killed him.