War

War

            War is war, and hell is hell. Of the two, war is worse. For all deserve hell, yet there are innocents who die in war. I read that once, I don’t remember where. And as I stepped through the battle ravaged field, I realized how right that statement was.

            Behind every face, behind every man and woman, I saw a child, and I saw a family. I saw the child I had personally raised to be the fighting machine each soldier was, and the family that had so happily handed them off. People only see the bright side of the soldier life, because that’s all they’re shown.

            Ever since the fifth act of media protection enacted by the United Empire, nobody ever saw the war side of soldiers. They just saw what soldiers became if they lived. They just saw the fame, the hero worship, the glory. If they saw a battle, it was only one heavily in our favor, and they were never shown death, only the charges and the victory.

            I stepped over another body, riddled with burns and stinking of rotting flesh. Behind the scorched body, I saw a young ten year old girl, bouncing on the balls of her feet and a smile stretching across her face. I saw the brown hair, the beautiful hazel eyes, and the pale skin. I saw her two parents, and her brother who was upset because he was too young to join.

            I looked to her left, and saw her brother right there. Two years her younger, I managed to pull some strings and get him in her unit. They died in each other’s arms, and my eyes welled up at the sight. I quickly walked away, and wiped my eyes.

            I saw a building completely destroyed by a laser pulse, and the charred remains of a family inside. They truly were innocent, they weren’t even soldiers. They had died for no cause, and for no reason. There were four children, and two adults who I assumed where their parents.

            I walked on, doing my job, having to do my job. I was starting to tear up at this point, and didn’t even bother wiping the tears away. I stepped across the ground, making a thudding sound with every step.

            A butterfly flew in front of me. It was beautiful, like a ray of sunshine in a dark, dank cave. It was bright blue with black stripes across its wings, and white spots on those stripes. It was about the size of the palm of my hand. I tried to grab it as it flew in front of me, and it just fluttered on by.

            I broke down sobbing, and fell to my knees.  “Why does that butterfly get to live, while all these people died? I watched them grow from children into a beautiful force, and every single one died. Yet that single butterfly lives.” I curled up into the fetal position, and sat there sobbing.

            I had laid there for hours when they finally came to get me; they picked me up and carried me to the pulse jet. Not a word was spoken, they had seen this many times. People constantly broke down after seeing the carnage.

            I couldn’t even imagine the pain soldiers go through experiencing this. I was simply a bystander, though not innocent by any means. I had caused this. It was a horrible feeling, but not as horrible as the soldiers who participated must have felt.

            War is war, and hell is hell. Of the two, war is worse. For all deserve hell, yet there are innocents who die in war. I read that once, I don’t remember where. And as I flew out of the battle ravaged field, I realized how right that statement was.