Fists

Your hands tremble. A faint thing, like the feeling of a breeze in autumn, the shiver that involuntarily moves through you. It reminds you that your fingers are still curled in a fist, trying to hold onto the remnants of something you have now lost. You unfurl your hands, holding your palms out in front of you. Ashes slip through the spaces.

It’s a strange thing; this empty feeling. Two heartbeats ago you could have sworn you had it all, the world in the palm of your hands. Now? Maybe it's still the world, but you are seeing it for what it really is. What it always was? You are unsure.

Your armor begins to feel twice as heavy. In an absentminded motion you undo the straps, shrugging the breastplate off. You remove your helmet, grey smudges where your hands have touched the bloodied metal, and probably where they rest now. A dirty feeling spreads from the inside out, a fatigue that burns your eyes and aches all over.

All you ever wanted was the world.

You had it, possibly still have it, but at what cost?

You are alone, standing in the midst of fire and smoke, ash caking your hands. Was it worth it? Is triumph supposed to feel this hollow?

If this was what would always happen, the fate every man would meet if he took this path, you desire to have been the first to die. Let another soldier discover this truth; a bigger, braver man. 

This is a coward’s victory, and there is no one left to share it with but yourself.

Reviews

[DarkArtz 0703]

damn I love this and I seem to lose everyone that I love because of my anger issues