Pain and Decision
I'm writhing in pain, my head between in my hands, and I'm waiting for noise stop as shutting down eyes. Also, the body near me fell of my right leg and his white of eyes looking inside mine.
Weather is ice cold and snow grains are falling down slowly from the sky with a bitterly height. Submachine and sniper rifles’ voices are mixing in my head. Grenades, screams of our soldiers (they were pressing mines wrongly) are blowing up the air.
I'm a sniper. I would have got inside any house which is near to me about two meters. Some windows were built for hiding me like. But I couldn’t do it, and I’m still here, in that bloody bog! I hate war! I can’t understand. Why are we suppose to do this, huh? Why we? Who decides that? And… what’s going on there? These crowd… these bloods… Even, I’m not ready for this; because I afraid that - as anyone else.
I had a wife who has elegant blonde hair. I got married her last summer. But, I’m here now. Far away from those all… away from my car… from my garden… my house… even away from where I lived.
I didn’t want to do this. I wish I was not here, I just want to be with my wife… But unfortunately, I’m still here.
Fortunately, I’m still alive, in that blood. But that wasn't the important thing; important thing was the voice I heard. Just me heard... My dad’s voice! Yes, it belongs to my dad! I mean "it was" I can’t believe that! He says, “Come on, my lion! C’mon! You can do this! Don’t be afraid. I’m with you!”
That voice belonged to my dad, my dead dad…
“You know what's going to happen. But, you have to understand me! You can’t live with this afraid. So, what will you tell your wife?”
“C’mon…”
I realized somethings while I holding my weapon. I mustn’t be scared. This was not me... really.
I stood up, and began to run immediately. With all I can!
Then, I heard a scream, turned to it, it belongs to an enemy soldier.
And voice of a bullet was in my head.
I was shot.
And I was killed…
But the most important of all things... I was happy... Because I could see the heaven...
