A General Lack of Writing Ability

And That Was Enough

(This Story was written in January of 2018 for a High-School level Creative Writing class.)

The first thing Gene felt was an unbearable pain shoot up his arm. He ducked back into the trench, dry mud spattered about his clothes, staining his skin. He unbuckled his helmet, tossing it to the ground next to him. He took a deep breath, his eyes reflexively closing. As he stood there, he felt the bottom half of his forearm begin to turn warm. The warmth began to wrap around his elbow. Not warm in a sense of burning, mind you, that feeling was reserved for around halfway up his forearm, where it was most certainly making its presence known. No, this was a comforting warm. The embrace of a mother. A blanket baked freshly dry. It was a nice warm, and one that seemed to calm Gene to his core. He let his eyes slowly move open, revealing to him the hole through the center of his left arm.

He'd not noticed it before, and he didn't know why. I mean, it was certainly a recent development, but not so recent that he'd not had time to notice previously. Breaking away from his thoughts, Gene realized his hand had gone numb, an unpleasant cold running up it. He stared at it for what felt like hours. A stereotypical idea, he knew; seconds stretching out into minutes into hours. But when you're observing your own mortal wound, with only a few minutes left to think about it -- or quite possibly anything else for that matter -- your mind tries to make the most of what time is left. Gene scanned the rather deep trench for anyone able to help. However, he found it unfortunately emptied. (save for the dozen or so bodies Gene was to join the ranks of.) He wrapped his hand around the wound, letting his rifle clamber into the mud-turned-dust. He soon joined it, sitting down amongst the fallen. A trickle of crimson continued to drip from his elbow to the ground. By this point, Gene began to feel rather drowsy. He looked down at the wound, a serene peace washing over him. He continued to do little more than stare at it, grappling with the idea of trying more fervently to save himself. It would have seemed -- even minutes earlier -- like a particularly easy decision. However, by now the dream like state an immense loss of blood puts one in let him tend towards either decision. He pondered it for a moment. The thought of his family was what finally convinced him, funny as that may seem. He took a deep breath, pulling his arm close, and biting down on the artery. A deafening pulse of white noise brought him back to reality.

He felt burning -- a white, painful burning where he'd bit down. He looked up towards the trench. It was long, and empty of anyone who could help. The flesh of his arm was now held soundly between his teeth, though letting go would most certainly lead to his imminent death. He pushed himself to his feet, using the side of the trench to prop his trembling legs up against the mud. He began to stumble across the side of the trench, head down, and arm up. He needed to move quickly, but it hurt. It all hurt. His head was still reeling, he could hardly hear above the ringing out of mortar fire. He felt sick.

As he continued down the trench, he made a point not to look up. He didn't look up for the simple reason that, if he didn't, he'd always have hope that someone was just ahead of him. Gene stumbled on for a time that he himself could not recollect. He heard a voice from out in the distance, reduced to a whisper by the distance between himself and whoever was speaking.

"Who..." The voice called, though the rest of what it said was lost in the noise of the trench. Gene took it as a trick of the mind, continuing forward. Again, the voice called, the ringing of the shells giving way to it. "Who are you? State your name!" He asked, his voice accompanied by the sliding of a metal bolt. Gene's eyes shot open at the sound of someone else, some distance away there was a man clad in officers clothing. French, Gene deduced. The officer held in his hands a rifle. Gene stumbled forward, holding his hand in the air. As he moved, he saw the officer take aim. "State your name or you'll be shot!" Gene furrowed his brow, glancing down at what he'd assumed was his french uniform. However, what he found was that it was unrecognizable by the time he'd first seen the officer. His helmet and standard issue gun were both gone. His uniform, the last possible piece of identification, had blue so marred by blood and dirt that the cloth had turned the color of rust. Gene looked back up at the officer, who said a final time, "Identify yourself or I will not hesitate in putting you down."

Gene used his right hand to motion that he was unarmed, turning to face away from the officer with his remaining hand behind the back of his head. He fell to his knees, closing his eyes in what was close to prostration. He wanted to say something. He wanted to tell the officer he was his ally, that this was but a misunderstanding. He couldn't, however. He couldn't talk to the officer, he couldn't show him that he meant no harm. All he could do at this point was submit himself and hope he was not shot dead. All he could do is stay alive. A few seconds of silence. A few more. Before he could open his eyes, Gene feet a great pressure against the back of his head. Not pain, however, he didn't feel the least bit of pain. There wasn't time for the force of the gun's stock to render him in anything more than a dreamless sleep.

With Gene unconscious, the officer realized what the young soldier had been doing. The officer, in a state of haste, took his knife from his boot, pulling back the bolt of his gun to release a single bullet. He did his best to cut the top of the bullet off, though the boy was by this point bleeding to such a degree that any faltering in the officer's actions would lead to certain death on Gene's part. The officer, having effectively taken the top of the bullet off, poured its contents into Gene's wound. Finally, he lit the flare at his side, pressing its blinding spark into Gene's wound.

Gene's eyes shot open, he could feel a sort of warmth. No, not warmth, but burning. He swatted at the flare, which the officer calmly moved away from his wound. He stumbled to his feet, his legs near immediately buckling under his own weight. The officer chuckled, a morbid smile winding across his face. Gene lay on the ground, shock overwhelming any sense of malice he might of held for the man who had, quite literally, lit him on fire. Gene's breathing was erratic and stifled, though it was breathing nonetheless. And that was enough.