It was only after I pulled the trigger that I realized what I had done. Despite all the smoke and shouting and bodies, I could distinctly hear that hammer click into place. I could feel that chamber lock and that bullet whirl out through the barrel.
The steel vibrated and kicked and the powder burned, but all that concerned me was the lettering stamped on the bottom of that bullet. I could read it's markings over and over as it slowly turned and pulled away. At that moment, the battle ended - and so did my involvement in the war.
I was firing in the face of a charge, standing shoulder to shoulder with like-minded men. Bayonets and swords in our faces, cannon balls past our ears - I never truly aimed at any particular one.
It was like shooting at the side of a barn. Our only aim was at the color. That’s what we were trained to do. Never, ever have I recognized one - until, of course, today. With the bullet moving slowly, I was able to look up and catch a glimpse of his face.
He looked much older than he was supposed to be - more serious. Maybe because he realized the bullet’s path. I thought I could lean out and snatch it, or maybe swat it to another. But it was out of reach and I was out of time. I could hear his uniform rustle and see the bullet enter and split those fibers, with a little smoke and powder trail.
First he dropped his rifle. Then he clutched his chest before we locked eyes. And then I heard it crack bone. He laid still, his eyes wide, looking past me. We made promises on graves long ago that we would care for each other. I feel I’ve met my end of the bargain. After all, I’ve delivered him from this insanity.
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