Dear Journal,
It's been three months since the war ended and I
still haven't left for home. I honestly
don't know if I want to go home. Ever since John's death, life hasn't made any
sense. I remember the look on his face when he was labeled a traitor for not shooting a man. He was
thrown into a group full of traitors
. Most of the men in the group were civilians who only spoken their native
language. The captain brought out a row of men and put them against a wall.
The captain yelled at his man "These people are your enemy, so I want to
count in your head; One, Two, Three, Reload." So all the men pointed up
their guns. One, Two, Three, Reload. The captain brought another row of crying
men. One, Two, Three, Reload. The pile
had grown larger and the air was full of widows howls. Finally the captain had
brought out the last row of men. John was in the middle of the row, his face
was pale and wet. Wet from tears that ran down his face as he moved up the line
to meet death. His eyes were wide and lost as he looked at me. One, Two Three,
Reload. His eyes were closed. The bodies were dragged off and thrown into a pit
behind the church. As the army was about to head off, the captain turned to the
wall and said " What a pretty red wall", and made his leave. Ever
since that day I can't go outside without thinking about it. Everywhere I go
all I ever hear is One, Two, Three, I can never stop myself from yelling "
Reload!" At least in this town the locals understand why I do it. If I was
to go home I would be marked crazy. At least here I am normal.
-
Harley Thorne