Casualties
Casualties
by KarnivorousWolf
This story is written in a flash-back style, each one separated. This is my first attempt at writing like this, so don't tear me apart too bad
A small flag waivered in the wind, drawing my gaze up from the cold gray stone I had been casting my eyes upon. The three colors blended dogether in a blur as I watched them with tears in my eyes. My eyelids close and I think of what those colors meant to me, then I open my eyes and look to the stone etchings once more and read the inscription with silent words.
"In loving memory..."
Whooooooooom- boom! That sound will stick with me until my parting days. The sound of the "Steel Rain" as we called it. It was the sound of incoming mortar rounds. It jarred me out of my semi-sedate state of mind, and kicked me into reaction-mode. My hands found my rifle and my pack in seconds, and I flew from my vehicle towards a hardened outpost building. As I scrambled through the door and ran for the stairs to the roof, my shoulder pushed against someone, and I spun around to face my obstacle. It was my muse, she had taken refuge in the same building.
I had joined on with the Light Mobile Infantry when I had reached nineteen years old. As much as any young-buck wanted to, I wanted to serve my country and prove my worth. My training was difficult to say the least, but it is not what matters to me. Instead I am more concearned with what happened after we had been ordered to "Stand-to" and prepare for deployment.
My assigned unit was a motley assortment, consisting of canines, bovines, equines, even rodents like me. Rodents... the smaller, more "shady" characters... I hated being stuck within that stereo-type. I was a mongoose, not a rat. Everyone got along fairly well, and we all were more than prepared to go face our destinies, but I was not prepared for a four-foot tall surprise that was assigned to our unit.
She was a cat, a tabby to be more precise, attached to us as a "Civilian Relations Representative". She didn't have a place in war, but they were sending her with us. I didn't like that decision one bit.
I looked at her for what seemed like minutes, I saw hints of fear in her green eyes. The sound of mortars exploding outside and officers yelling orders to their troops were drowned out as I looked at her. It took almost uncanny effort to turn away from her and bound up the stairs to my assigned position. As I set my rifle onto a sand-bagged window-sill, I had settled into my "combat-mind" once again, cold, calculating, and alert. She was safe, there was no need to worry.
At times my platoon was left to ourselves, and boredom began to brew. I began to think of the feline, first in carnal ways. I regret it is the first way a male will think of a female in most cases. But I was not satisfied with mere thougths of her body, and whenever I would pass by her while out and about on our outpost, I would greet her and commit to some idle small-talk. I really began to like her, she was smart and pretty, with a fairly good sense of humor as well. If I had known what was to happen a few months later, I wouldn't have even approached her.
I began to draw pictures of her, and write horribly put-together songs. The cute feline became my muse of sorts, inspiring me to create some decent artwork and sub-par poems. I wanted to tell her, but something kept me from doing so. It may have been a lasp of confidence, or maybe a reluctance to admit to finding a possible relationship in this war-torn wasteland, or maybe I knew something was going to go bad, and that if I told her, then it would only result in more pain later. Whatever the reason was, I held my tongue.
Whooooooooom- boom! The blast was so close, my vision went black and sounds became muffled as if listening through pillows. Me and my muse had been talking and I had just summoned the courage to pull one of my drawings from my pocket when the mortar came in on us. As my eyes came back into use, I saw I was laying next to my muse, the ground was changing color from brown to red, she was bleeding.
"Medic! Medic!"
I couldn't hear my own voice, a searing pain was in my chest, I was wounded. I didn't care, my muse was bleeding fast, she needed help. I crawled closer to her and reached out for her, in my hand was the partially crumpled picture. She took it and straightened it out, its edge touching against the sand and staining red as well. She smiled and reached out to touch my cheek, her fingers left bloody trails on my face.
The medics rushed to us and began to treat us. I remember them saying that we would be just fine, and I slowly lost conciousness as I looked over toward my muse.
I guess some things are just not meant to work out the way you want them to. I reach to the grave again and stop myself from touching it. Instead I turn to the figure beside me. She is so beautiful to me, but I will never get to tell her. I set my hand on her shoulder, knowing that she can't feel it, it can't comfort her, but at least it will comfort me. Maybe I'll see her again sometime, until then I guess I'll just draw her a picture.