A weed in war

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Garlic Mustard by Hans on Pixabay

If I could stop the events of that day I would, but those events are gone now, unchangeable.

The morning was bright and clear, perfect for a victory, or so we thought. We marched out beneath a cloudless blue sky, our banners waving gloriously in the breeze. A glory that wouldn’t last.

As we approached the sentry line I felt the first stirring in my belly that something was wrong. I wish I’d listened then.

A cry went up as we marched beyond the gate and they fell on us in our panic. Their weapons shredding flesh and snapping bone. I remember being knocked into a ditch in the confusion and lying there in the filthy water. Dazed and confused I stared at a single flower, white and tiny, on the tip of a weed while screams echoed and rent the air.

I waited to die.

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