REVENGE
The battlefield was filled with the smell of gunpowder and blood. Thick and oppressive smoke curled through the air. My heart was hollow, and I held the rifle steadily. Retaliation was the only thing that mattered now. It had been my only source of guidance during this conflict, propelling me forward with unrelenting rage.
My fear was burned away by hate. The loss had numbed me long ago—my family, my friends, and my home were all reduced to memories and ashes. And now, I had one enemy. One man is responsible for it all.
Through the fog, a lone figure moved. A soldier, creeping forward, trying to stay unseen. My finger tightened on the trigger. Harder. Harder.
Then he turned.
Recognition struck like a hammer. My pulse pounded in my ears. It was him. My brother's killer. I had witnessed my brother's face through the smoke that day as his bullet hit him and caused him to collapse to the ground. The memory had charred my soul and hardened into rage.
And now, at the mercy of fate, he stood in front of me, vulnerable and alone.
He hesitated, his rifle stuttering. His hands shook. Mine didn't. I didn't think about it. I didn't hesitate.
Before he could react, my bullet ripped through him.
His body crumpled as he stumbled and twisted in the mud. Crimson pooled beneath him as his breath came in sharp gasps. I took a step forward, relishing the occasion. Justice was done. The cycle was finished.
Then, his hand made a motion.
I raised my rifle again, ready for another strike—prepared to end this ultimately. But his trembling fingers pulled something from his pocket instead of a weapon.
A photograph.
A woman. A child.
His family.
His lips moved, whispering words too faint to hear. Bloodied fingers gripped the picture's edges like they were more precious than life.
Something inside me cracked.
Slowly, I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a worn photograph of my home, my mother, and my brother—before the war had stolen everything.
He saw it. His gaze flickered, and he gave a weak, bitter smile. As if he understood. It was as if, at that final moment, we were no longer enemies.
I had thought vengeance would bring me peace. That killing him would fill the void his bullet had left in my life.
But standing over his broken body, I felt nothing. No relief. No triumph. Just emptiness.
I knelt beside him as his breath faded, his grip on the photograph loosening. I pressed it back into his palm. He should have at least that.
Then, I placed my own photograph in the dirt beside him. Because, in the end, we had both lost.
The war would go on. I would kill again. Maybe I would even die. But revenge had given me nothing.
Only another ghost to haunt me.
My fear was burned away by hate. The loss had numbed me long ago—my family, my friends, and my home were all reduced to memories and ashes. And now, I had one enemy. One man is responsible for it all.
Through the fog, a lone figure moved. A soldier, creeping forward, trying to stay unseen. My finger tightened on the trigger. Harder. Harder.
Then he turned.
Recognition struck like a hammer. My pulse pounded in my ears. It was him. My brother's killer. I had witnessed my brother's face through the smoke that day as his bullet hit him and caused him to collapse to the ground. The memory had charred my soul and hardened into rage.
And now, at the mercy of fate, he stood in front of me, vulnerable and alone.
He hesitated, his rifle stuttering. His hands shook. Mine didn't. I didn't think about it. I didn't hesitate.
Before he could react, my bullet ripped through him.
His body crumpled as he stumbled and twisted in the mud. Crimson pooled beneath him as his breath came in sharp gasps. I took a step forward, relishing the occasion. Justice was done. The cycle was finished.
Then, his hand made a motion.
I raised my rifle again, ready for another strike—prepared to end this ultimately. But his trembling fingers pulled something from his pocket instead of a weapon.
A photograph.
A woman. A child.
His family.
His lips moved, whispering words too faint to hear. Bloodied fingers gripped the picture's edges like they were more precious than life.
Something inside me cracked.
Slowly, I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a worn photograph of my home, my mother, and my brother—before the war had stolen everything.
He saw it. His gaze flickered, and he gave a weak, bitter smile. As if he understood. It was as if, at that final moment, we were no longer enemies.
I had thought vengeance would bring me peace. That killing him would fill the void his bullet had left in my life.
But standing over his broken body, I felt nothing. No relief. No triumph. Just emptiness.
I knelt beside him as his breath faded, his grip on the photograph loosening. I pressed it back into his palm. He should have at least that.
Then, I placed my own photograph in the dirt beside him. Because, in the end, we had both lost.
The war would go on. I would kill again. Maybe I would even die. But revenge had given me nothing.
Only another ghost to haunt me.
