Fight

Sorry if I change tenses a lot it's something I'm working on. If you see a correction you know what to do. :)
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Prologue:
In every persons life there is a defining moment. Something that inspires you to build on yourself. Something that sets you apart from your youth and your adulthood. That moment was the death of my brother.
Three years into the war me and my brother were playing outside our old house. The house we all had grown up in, the place I fell and got my first scar. The place we celebrated birthdays from the day I was born to my tenth just a few days before. It was the place my brother was brought home to when I was two. It was not much but it was home.
At the beginning of the war the town became a secure lock down security protected by the government. Judging by the attack that name the formality of the name was not that significant.
All I remember was men jumping out of corner, cars, and bushes. Shoving people to the ground and stepping on us as if we were nothing. As if we were merely rats in a dungeon. They told us that they were the rebellion that they wanted what was right that the government was corrupt.
They went on about how they would love to gain more young and able soldiers, and I looked down the line a saw that we were all children the youngest my brother at eight. As they went down the line they looked every one of us in the eye. Pointing to the red and silver arm band showing us they were from the rebellion.
They got to the end of the line and a man bent down to look at my brother strait in the eye.
" How old are you son?" The man asked in a cool but condescending voice. My brother shook his head no in a sign that he would not tell him.
"No?" the man asked, "Fine then. Are you willing to volunteer as a solider of the rebellion?" the man asked.
At this my brother stepped forward, with as much courage as an eight year old could have, and looked down the line of children. Friends and neighbor we all had probably grown up with. But I would not know at that moment the only face I could see was my brothers. He was going to stand up to a rebel and I was going to lose him.
His eyes caught mine and he mouthed the words " I'm sorry" and turned back to the man and said the one word that would end his life. No.
The man pulled out a gun and shot him on the spot. I remember my ears ringing and wetness poring down my face. Opening my mouth, screaming and yelling, because that was all I could do. It was the only thing a ten year old could do.
For years I regretted not chancing after the men as they pulled away from the house. I regretted not stepping in front of my brother to save his life. Not talking for him or telling him not to. I went through it all depression, anger, rebellion, but it never changed the last image I had of Charlie. The bullet entrance in his chest. The blood on his crisp white shirt.
All of it did not change one thing.
That was the day I started hating the rebellion.

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Kinda short to people who are actually reading this hello! This is my first book so ya! Tell me what you think!

Be peaceful!
-Kayla