Dust to Dust

Hello all,

This was a civics assignment, on which I got a ninety-six percent.

Thank you bookworms56  for listening to me read it.

This is NOT based on a true story, rather based on something that could've happened. It is completely original. Everything in this story belongs to me.

Translation: do not plagiarize, copy, or use any of these ideas, characters or concepts without my permission or CREDIT.

Thank you.

:)

- TAAF_

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I stood at attention on the dew-laden grass, watching as the casket I had carried with the rest of my platoon to the graveyard, was set to be lowered into the ground. The chasm receiving the coffin was six-feet deep, carved out of the earth.

The casket which enshrined my best friend, was shrouded in a symbol that made me incredibly proud to wear as a pin on my chest: the Canadian Flag.

I bit down on my lip so hard I could almost taste blood, as the bagpipes rang out: playing a song I knew all too well having attended many funerals, such as this one. Despite having seen many Canadian soldiers lowered to their final resting place, this one was the one that hurt the most.

Perhaps I'd taken the life of my friend for granted, something I'd be sure never to do again, because now he was dead. I think the worst part was he did not have to die.

I blinked tears back slowly as I drew a heavy breath, recalling the day he died.

Our platoon, including Sebastien Laurent, his sister Victoire, Thomas Hawthorne and I were escorting a group of Syrians to a nearby refugee camp in Jordan, and we were almost there.

Sebastien and Thomas were conversing about our plans when our squad got back from our deportation: we were leaving to go home tomorrow.

Seb had just said that he was going to take Victoire to Whistler Mountain back home in Canada because she'd never been and loved to ski.

"Are you guys flying out?" Thomas asked, shifting his reflective aviators on his tanned face.

"Yeah. I hid the plane tickets and reservations, and all that jazz in my hockey bag back home. It's unlikely that Victoire would ever look in there--" Seb trailed off, as he watched two Syrian children run ahead of the group, cheering in delight at the sight of a lone soccer ball about a hundred feet from a clay building that was part of the camp.

At first I didn't understand Seb's concern, until what he was clearly concerned about, happened. Before I had a chance to react and try to stop the kids from going after the soccer ball, which was too polished and perfect to belong there, Seb lurched forward, barking "Stop!" in Arabic.

"GET BACK!" Sebastien shouted to Thomas and everyone else, bounding after the child closest to him.

Seb's orders had come too late, for the child who reached the soccer ball first, a lot farther ahead than the other, kicked it.

It was then that I was dragged back to reality, back to the funeral as the minister started to speak.

"Ashes to ashes," She spoke out clearly, holding her hand over the grave, the casket safely inside. "Dust to dust."

With that she dropped a handful of dirt into the pit, a Christian tradition at funerals. When the substance hit the wood my friend was encased in, it triggered the rest of the memory, of his death.