Act of War

She never made me feel like a prisoner, and I never felt I was one.  She had dragged my worn body through the muddy grounds and off the gory battlefield.  A woman her age wouldn't have the physical capability to drag a fairly large guy but she did somehow.  That's my recollection of the incident anyways.  However, I could be mistaken for a bit of dirt had blurred my vision and there was a slight ringing in my blood-clogged ear.  She dragged me down a whole or what she had called it, a sanctuary.  Her sanctuary was a few feet underground, which made perfect sense for a woman in her area.  Her so-called sanctuary was under No-man’s land, where many of the harshest battles have been fought.

Her name was Annabelle.  I think she preferred me to call her Annabelle over any other objective or subjective pronoun I have been using since I met her.  Annabelle walked in wearing the same grey scarf around her head that she was wearing the day I somewhat saw her in the battlefield.  I did not recall many of her facial features or wardrobe, but I did have a few that were engrained into my memory: her wrinkled face, her grey scarf, and her floral yet worn out sweater that might have been as old as she was.  She handed me a cup of some warm elixir, more commonly known as herbal tea.  I took small sips as I can feel the warmth seep through my cold body and even colder soul.  She sat on her beige woven chair across from me as she stared at me sipping the tea.  I was laying on a dirty but comfy blanket that Annabelle had placed there instead of a mattress or bed I suppose.  Her dry lips smacked a bit and she started narrating me a tale in her raspy voice.

“Years, decades or centuries ago, a war started or continued.  No one is sure of how or when 'The' war started because there are so many conflicting stories.  Historians from either side provided an immense number of false documentations, that it became hard to make sense of what actually happened.  All I know is that there has always been a war between the oppressed and the oppressors.  It gets a bit tricky because each side has always thought that they were and still are the oppressed.  As time took its toll on the people, ideologies persisted while facts faded away.  The people rushed to fight for what they believed in and disregarded any kind of respect that communication or understanding deserved.  That's how the Rebels and the Liberators were born.  The question, therefore, remains: Which side is the right?”

I pondered what Annabelle had said.  I took the last sip of the tea and felt as a drop slid down the side of my lip and down my chin.  I guess, when you are as exhausted as me, you are allowed to put table manners aside.  I was exhausted since I had a strenuous shift with my squad of pushing some of the enemy frontline back.  I was extremely fatigued and frail respectively to what I was a few months ago before I was thrown out onto the frontline of the battle in No-man's land.  Don't get me wrong. I was still a decent size, but after months of eating scarcely any person would start losing mass.  I have made some observations about Annabelle as she was talking about the history of the war.  She is quite intellectual and obviously well-educated from the way she spoke.  Annabelle cared deeply about this matter, which was evident from the way she spoke with such a passionate tone despite her composed vocab.  Graduating from university was a leisure in our times, but as a university graduate myself I appreciated the way Annabelle spoke.

The old grey, yet full of life, lady walked into the small concrete room after a couple of hours.  She handed me a piece of very dry bread and a clay mug that was half-filled with water.  Annabelle then proceeded to continue her passionate tale.  “Both, the Rebels and the Liberators, had good intentions in mind.  They both wanted freedom and to break the chains that the oppressors have put upon them.  The issue was that none of the people fighting for either side knew who the oppressors were.  That kind of uncertainty caused mass panic in the supporters of both sides.  The darkest times always happen during the times with greatest uncertainty.  The leaders of both sides had to have a target, so they decided to blame that their power would grow and the people would fight for them.  They succeeded...”

I tried to interrupt her with a furious tone about some of her remarks.  The oppressors were obviously the enemy, but she swiftly shushed with her hand placed on my mouth.  Annabelle then continued with her obviously flawed story.  “As I was saying, neither side knew who the oppressors were so they decided to fight each other.  At first, the war started with good intentions: to be free, to find answers and independence.  However, as the time worn on what can only be described as cruel acts of war occurred.  The reason for the war became vague and it became the war itself that drove either side to continue fighting.”

“Men, women, trees, children and all organisms and their ecosystems became the victims of the war.”  Her voice cracked a little. I could tell that she wanted to cry but no tears would roll down from her eyes.  I handed her my clay mug because she looked parched. She grabbed it with her shaky hands and took a small sip.  Annabelle left the room in a worse state than she had entered in.  As much as the story left me in awe and a bit in disbelief, I knew the true story of how the war started and my beliefs were stronger than ever.  I sighed as I laid back onto the hard floor.  I felt sorry for the naive old woman and her paranoid state of mind. Annabelle was a powerful and emotional person.  That also means that whatever cracked her and made her so vulnerable and paranoid must have been something with immense strength.  The thought made me shiver. I knew my strength (mentally) could never be as strong as hers.

She walked back in with tears having finally started to drip down her wrinkled face.  I sat up hastily looking at her in shock.  I was a bit stunned by the site of a long barrel shotgun in her right hand.  For a woman her size and age, Annabelle sure had the strength (physically) of a man my age.  “What..  What are you doing?  Why would you nurture and treat a man so well, only to spill his blood later?  I have so much respect for you Annabelle.  Please do not disregard my attempt to communicate with you.”  I started to panic even more when she cocked the shotgun.  “Why did you tell me the story if you were just going to shoot me?" I tried to reason with her as my heart rate spiked.  “It's people like you. They'll never... ever.. change but I had to let you know why.  This war has to stop at some point.”  Annabelle was as much a victim of the war as any of the other organisms she had talked about.
She pulled the shotgun up and directly shot into my wide chest.  I heard a massive blast and a ringing sound pierce my ear.  My blood covered the wall behind me like an abstract painting in a renaissance museum of some sort.  I looked behind me at the wall.  I took my last breath and stared at the painting that can only be described as 'a cruel act of war'.  Annabelle dragged my limp yet semi-conscious body across the floor and into a ditch even deeper than her hole was.  I heard crunching sounds under me in the dark damp hole.  There was no point in me screaming or even trying to climb up.  I was bleeding out and this was the end of my road.  I looked down in curiosity and all I could see was rotting flesh and bare bones.  As much as Annabelle was the victim of this long war, I was not her only victim.