Plot:lesbian, and more...
Warning mentions depression and gore
⚠Fewer desecration advised⚠
I fought as long as I could remember. When I entered. Well let's just say. I didn't care what would happen to me. I thought about doing something useful.That's why I joined. Wouldn't mind if I died. I didn't care what happened. But I never thought I would have to pull the trigger. To save a friend's life. Well at least try. One bullet made the enemy fall. A spy of sorts. Got in to learn from us. To know what we do. How we would react. We fought on the same team. For a long time. I thought he was just like everyone else. We all had different reasons why we joined. I just never thought his reason was to kill us. As I turned, I took a look at my friend. It was already too late. That moment I froze from taking another life. It cost another. The blood rolled off his neck. You could see the bullet went straight through his neck. That was just one of my memories from the army. There were many things I regret. Things I wished I could change. But no matter how much you try. It stays the same. All the funerals I went to when serving. I never thought I would make friends. But if you live in a small place. For a while you'll be surprised. You learn more than just the land. Listen more than the sounds of nature, but of the stories. Listen to your friends shooting up right in bed. Crying, sometimes screaming from their memories. We tell our past. But only slivers we want you to hear. Or just the ones we can actually talk about. Some are so bad. That you choke up. You think you can talk about it. But you can't. The good memories like passing around booze and telling stories. You wish you dreamed about it. We weren't friends but family. People joined or switched to different missions. They pay us enough money just to barely get by. That's how they keep us. Unable to find a job we go back. That's why you shouldn't mess with veterans. Well that's always what they say. Writing in a book, afraid to lose my memories. I kept that book hidden. And I kept it close. So if I did wake up. At least I had something to read so I know who I was. I remember that landmine that blew off my leg. I had to get surgery done. Half my thigh was left. I guess I was lucky enough to keep my hip. There was barely enough room for a bionic leg. It took awhile but I learned how to use it. I lay awake thinking of the past. Half of the time. I guess I'm still weak. I know some people would argue with me. You got a purple heart. You should be proud. But how can I? More people died in my hands than the ones I saved. I shouldn't be proud of that. It's not as amazing as everyone thinks it is, to join the military. Sure you get some good memories. But you'll have more bad ones. Ones that you'll never forget.
How can you change the world? If you keep the endless cycle. Death and revenge. That's how hatred is made. Some could argue there is no peace but there is. Only when we don't look for it. Sitting in a chair. Having a drink. It exists but people don't realize it. I fought only to make my own story.
"Did you sleep last night?"she asked. "Nothing I can't handle." My wife still worries. But I guessed that's understandable. "Can you tell me the tale of the white rose? The one you made,"she asked. I told her about it once. How I would tell the tale when I was drunk. I guess I better tell her my story that I wrote again. "There was once white rose. They sat beside each other. One day. They heard gunshots they saw someone run over. As he ran he was shot. He fell on one of the roses. He killed his friend. As night fell. The white rose asborded his blood. He turned red. The next day someone dragged him away. As the days counting the red rose grew. The more angry he got. He grew thick thorns so no one could ever touch him. Slowly a new rose blossoms. He was white but over time. Of hearing what the red rose told him. He too turned red. The thorns he grew weren't as strong as the older one. For how young he was. Someone took him away. Brought into a shelter. Feed him, water him. Slowly he lost his thorns. As he sat there listening to the stories. He couldn't help but to weep. Hearing what they went through. So slowly, his color drained. He was white once more." As I finished the story she gave me some pain killers. "Tell me the story of the lily," my wife asked once more. I didn't take the pain killer. But I looked at the bottle. "The white Lily that grew near the river. Was white. One day there was war. One that splattered blood on Lily. He turned pink, stained by their blood. He wished to leave but couldn't. As he stood watching. There a new Lily grew. As he listens to stories. He too became pink. As he was taken away. Fear was all he knew. But he was slowly taught there was more in life than fear. He told the new Lily before he died about this. So Lily didn't grow pink but he stayed white." That story was a sober one that I remember both the same. "You should take them after all. How can the flower grow? If they can't heal,"she said. As she pulled me in a hug. I couldn't help but thank her. She stayed with me through all this. It was more than love. Which I thank her for.
The flower blooms once the sun raise. What will you tell the flower?
