We Are Torn

 Ashes fell, corpses too, through and through. The battle had ended, or so it seemed, and away from the shelter I crawled. Wails had grown weak, but strong was silence. Foreboded I did, of what was to be seen above. From the mud I writhed, finding only ways of contorted madness above. Gaping wounds scoured the land which rained no more than blood. In the end, it had come to this, a torn battlefield that all but none had missed. Limping, falling, crying on one knee I found myself in grief. Indebted to sorrow was the mind of that I simply had no control.

 Move forward, we all did this. We all had forgotten, forgiven, replaced the sins that we did carry. Yet now, in such a moment of nigh regret, it all seemed so pointless. Serenity was at ease, while chaos raged in thought when I took another step, of which a puddle had targeted. Ripples formed beneath me, a face unknownst below mischieved the vision of eyes in which I held. Dark, yet bright, and mutated it did, controlled structure seemed lost and amidst all different skins and races was something akin to nothing at all. Empty seemed the soul of such a face. In it’s gaping wide mouth, I saw none; in it’s eyes open wide, I saw none; in it’s shape or form, there was only one. Simply lost it was, hidden deep beneath the crevassess of fading men and women.

 Moved forward, this is what I did. Cadavers did not squirm, did not sense me, did not respond to reconstructed, silent calls of misery and deep moans of regret. Regret. Why, why would one such as the victim that fall prey feel regret as such I did? Hope. Hope was what I should have found when I saw such of which was the beacon in the darkness. Clenching to the Earth, his body lay flat, yet moved ever so fluently in the blinding desolation.

 “Hello,” to the forever eternal friend I called out. Slumped over his knees, I pulled him upwards and held my breath. Response never came in the form of sound, yet the volume of such expressions he showed me I will never forget. Horror is in the eye of the beholder, just as beauty, just as life and death. A nightmare, I must have seemed, for from the faithful eyes of the man came nothing more but what one could describe as terror itself. From him came the look of someone that had seen such terrifically unbearable, twisted horror.

 He stayed not for long, and soon his soul was gone, just as his hope. His body fell with a thud, to the blood ridden mud. My eyes seared and burned out of the extremity of sadness mixed into my brain. Was all lost, was my fate all of this? Backwards I fell purposely, landing on my coccyx in the thick mud. I cranked my head up, holding back my wails of anguish when I saw it. I saw the thing in the puddle. Massive, it was, on a hill miles away. The facial structure and details of the face were visible enough for me to describe, or rather, the opposite, this is how large the best was.

 The body was tall and consisted of bone, but no flesh, only skin to cover the seemingly brittle insides. One arm was tiny, barely visible from where I sat, covered in nothing but a sheer coat of cleanliness, while the other was long and slender, lacking muscle and covered in thick fluid. The torso, filling of food it did need. The rib cage it held as a main structure for its posture stretched down the entire length of the body, some sticking out through the thin coat it did wear as skin. Underneath it lay two legs, one muscular and meaty, the other long and wounded by a large shard of wood.

 It’s face, it’s face was different though. Unlike what I’d seen before, the shape and form stayed the same, just as the color and detail. Yet, there were two faces I saw that day on the beast. Torn by flesh were two different realities, two different lives and two different deaths. On the right, I saw what I never thought could exist on the body of such an ugly being. My face, or at least half of it, crying just as I was before, blood splattered and mud painted. Yet, on the left, was something I never thought I’d ever see at all. The only way I can describe what was shown on the left side of the torn, claustrophobic fight for room on the head, is by simply claiming the name, “Satan”. I gazed as long as I could before the monstrous savior slowly faded into the horizon.

 War. War is brutal, yet beautiful. War is ever-changing, but never changes. War is death, but it is also life. War is freedom, but also slavery. We are war, but we are peace, we shall always change, but we will never. We are soldiers, we are the gateway between life and death.

We are war.

Refreshing Demise (talk) 02:04, June 2, 2014 (UTC)