Who Mourns The Nameless?

Will the unnamed be mourned, let alone remembered?

I have been watching him for some time now, and he has been watching me. He is probably the only person I know intimately in this hellhole. But today his eyes are not on me. I hate that his eyes are not on me.

We met three weeks ago. The moment we met, I knew we would be together until one of us died. I saw a lot of myself in him and ended up finding all the answers to my questions, in him.

Oh, the questions! I used to have so many questions about myself. Who am I? Why was I here? What is my purpose in life? I gathered a few facts that made up something resembling an answer.

I had devoted my life to the great cause just like my father and his father before him. I took fierce pride in serving the great cause. In fact, the pride was the only thing that kept me grounded. I was told that those around me were my brothers and sisters, and we were bringing righteous judgement to those opposing us.

But none of those answers were enough for me. I felt no sense of brotherhood with my brethren; I had no soul left to guide me; I was lost.

And then I saw him. On a glorious Tuesday afternoon, I saw him.

I had spent most of the morning searching for him, but he was evasive. It took me hours to spot him and when I did, he was already looking at me. When our eyes met, I knew it - he was me.

Since then we had spent most of our time staring at each other - sharing silent stories and voicing wordless poems, all the while expecting the fiendish call of the horns to end our perfect unspoken relationship.

Three weeks later, it happened. The announcements were made, and all hell broke out. I followed my first instinct to duck behind the barricades, only to instantly regret it. My counterpart must have seen me chicken out and labelled me a coward. I couldn’t afford to have him think less of me, so I mustered up my courage and returned to my post.

That brings us to now.

I look straight at him hoping he’d make a move, but his eyes are not on me. No. Instead, he is focussed on what’s happening below. He is looking down and picking off my people like fish in a barrel.

I hear someone yell at me for help.

I focus my scope on him. He still isn’t looking at me at all. I silently beg him to look back at me, to do the one job he was given. But he doesn’t.

I hear more screams from below. While most are unintelligible shrieks of pain and misery, I can still make out the few voices pleading me for assistance.

“SNIPER COVER!”, a voice yells and is instantly silenced.

I take a deep breath and give him one more moment of mercy. He is still engrossed in the battle below. Maybe he thought I didn’t have it in me; Or maybe he thought I did. I’d never know. I pull the trigger. His body goes limp and he bleeds out on his rifle.

And the moment is over. Time doesn’t slow down; The screams don’t drown into silence. The bugles keep blaring and the dogs of war keep running amok. No one mourns him. I don’t mourn him either - I have no soul left to mourn.

But I will eventually miss him. In a day, in a week, or in a month - whenever the armistice is restored and I return to watching over my brethren at night, I will miss him. I will miss my brother.

But not today.

Today, I have fish to shoot.