the Murder.

I can still see his face. His filthy, streaming, shaking face. His eyes look, lock into mine, and his lips force out the only words they know: don't. Please, please don't. But I do. I grab hold of his trembling white limbs, smeared with the blood of his brothers, my brothers. I push the point of my gun to his head, to the delicate fine lines of his broken face. I look, I look away, I focus on the clearing smoke, upon the bodies of my brothers - the ruined temples, never to be beautiful again; never again to taste the breath of life. don't. he pleads. he shakes. he struggles helplessly against my iron grip. please, please don't. I clench my jaw; I feel pain explode through my muscles. But I am assured. I look to my hand; the hand clutching the gun. It is stained with mud, sweat, and blood. One more spot to damn, only one more life to take. I can see my finger pull the trigger, and feel body; still warm; no longer struggling in my grasp. What have I done! a rush of unquenchable, unfightable grief - guilt - floods my tattered heart. I kneel, my brother soldier; my brother fighter; I kneel still holding you in my arms, and I weep for your brokenness. A final kiss of adieu, and reverently laying your temple to the soiled earth, I turn on my war-torn heel and walk away.