Learning he was dead wasn't what tore me. Of course, there was the regret. When I heard the news over the radio, I slowly removed my glasses and passed a hand over my face. The words and the catch in Peterson's throat as he said them echoed endlessly around the room. Or was it just in my head? Mission: accomplished. Casualties... 100%. But that wasn't the moment of my destruction. I knew I had to push on, and there was acceptance. It's part of the job; part of the inescapable truth of what we were doing. It was reality. But the passage of time afterwards that was, well, wearing. It's exhausting, walking with a spring in your step when the burden of duty is almost unbearable. And yet, we do it. We do it so regularly. How do such small beings manage to walk so lightly when the weight of the world is pressing on their shoulders?
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Poems and One-Shots
PuisiI don't think I'm ever going to post a full story on here, but I like to write little things. Hope you enjoy.
