I still remember the day my brother died. He was so young, so innocent and full of hope. We marched alongside each other towards Antietam. He smiled and laughed to hide his nervousness. His smile made the grim realities of war bearable. Then, everything changed.
We set up camp in the nearby forest and I watched as he flirted with one of the younger nurses, Mary, I think. She was a pretty young thing, sweet and innocent, perfect for my brother. He told me that he planned on properly courting her once the war was over. Little did either of us know, how dark and short our futures would be.
The next day, we marched on towards our fates. He was smiling, trying to remain positive, even though we all knew at that point that not all of us would return. As we neared the site of what would soon be a bloodstained, chaotic, and smoke-clogged war zone, my brother said to me, "Just think! After we are done with this battle, we shall see Mother's face again!"
I smiled sadly, and replied, " I shall ensure it."
Then, chaos erupted.
Men on our right flank were blown sky-high and their pain-filled screams still echo in my ears. My brother and I, along with our battalion, ducked the flying chunks of earth and good men, and continued toward our goal.
Suddenly, an ominous chill settles over me. I turn to look at my brother for reassurance, only to be met with a face filled with horror. Then, I saw nothing.
Looking back on this moment as I stumble my way home, I am reminded of the look of surprise still etched on his face as his disembodied head falls to the crimson grass, the beheaded body not long after. I remember the pain in my body and my heart as the cannon shrapnel tears through muscle, ligament, and bone and my brother's death begins to sink in, piercing deeper than any flesh wound. I remember losing track of where my own blood stopped staining my uniform and where my brother's blood began. I remember those moments because they will haunt my memory from this life until the next. I fear that I will never be the same - no, I know that I will never be the same. I fear that I will never be able to forgive myself for allowing my brother to join me, or stand in that place in the order, or not hiding him in the woods with Mary to protect him from all harm.
Suddenly, the excruciating pain in my leg starts again. I suppose that the bloody, gaping, hole in my lower limb will be counted as just another casualty of war, just like my brother. Then, everything went dark.
The next moment that I can clearly remember, is walking home with a bandaged stump where my leg used to be, a bag with food to last me until I can arrive, and a shoddily constructed wooden cane to assist me. My uniform jacket was torn and tied over my wounds to show that the camp infirmary had run out of bandages before their discovery of my slightly smaller injuries.
Mother will fuss over me when I get home and then worry about my brother's health, I think, forgetting that she has probably already been informed due to the speed of the military messengers and my slow, staggering pace, I don't want to have to tell her about the fate of her youngest son.
As I limp towards the town in the distance, I think of happier times: my brother and I playing games in the forest (when not otherwise burdened by chores and the like), my brother and I getting into trouble because we tracked mud through the house, teasing him about his lack of interest in the local women until one day he looked at me and said that I was correct in assuming he had a crush on a young lady named Mary. Good times of a bygone era.
My future looks so much bleaker without his brilliant presence brightening my view. I wonder what life has in store for me now.
YOU ARE READING
My Brother and I
Tiểu thuyết Lịch sửThis is a story that I had to write in History based on a writing prompt. It turned into an angsty mess and I apologize for any confusion that may result from this. The prompt was to write 1 page of a story from the point of view of either a wounded...
