Child Soldier Creative Writing

I am holding a gun to my head. On the verge of death I look back at how it escalated to this to convince not to make the wrong choice as I had done before. That memory among many other dark ones remained as clear as see through water. Five years ago… Sierra Dianas. Thoughts flooded my mind as I clutched the gun harder and harder. I faced an atrocious, inescapable decision. A war befell in my head, a death match between my consciousness and my fear. As one callously stabbed the other, the tip of my finger pressed harder against the trigger.
Time was ticking. I shut my eyes as I hoped to disconnect the vision of a girl slouched in front of me, so defenceless yet so fearless. Her face wasn’t completely visible but judging by her figure she was no more then 15. She showed no fright, demonstrating her disgust towards bowing down to the rebels: she remained her posture straight and her head help up high. She looked down upon us even though she was the one on the floor. Her face captured complete hatred. Her attempts to resist were hopeless as two older men forced her down onto the ground.
Her arms were tied behind her back so any chance of action towards escape was restricted. I bit my battered lip to remind myself of what I face if I disobey my master’s orders again: agonizing inexorable pain. I pressed harder against the trigger. My vision started to blur and lose its focus and my swollen eyelids did not help. I tried to slay these monstrous thoughts invading my brain, telling me to shoot her and spare myself the pain. I pressed harder. I tried to stop devilish thoughts terrorising my brain with illusionary words but no success: l pressed harder.

My consciousness whispered in my ear but the demon inside my soul drowned it heartlessly in my homesick sorrow. The silence waited to be heard. I pressed harder. The trigger clicked. A loud profound bang pierced through the air as the bullet fired cogently. I could hear my sanity slip away, all in the space of a millisecond. Regret and notoriety backfired at me as I saw my childhood flash by me; I shot her. I could almost hear her pulse drain as she gasped for air. Another life wasted. Her blood leaked.
My demons smothered in a pool of dark red and danced in murderous pride as my master gave me a smirk of praise but behind it hid the look of mutual remorseful experience. That night I was ranked the chief of other child soldiers for my righteous decision or in other words for being heartless enough to kill another of my own race; it would serve them well in the war. In a way I feel as if seeing us become monsters soothes their guilt. It made them less lonely. Even monsters need company. You would think killing again would ease the pain. Think again.
Every time it doubled, magnified, intensified, and deepened until the peak where it was unbearable: living with these mental images and mind overflowing with blood. Every fibre of my body grieved for the dead and me: the dyeing. I was chained to the everlasting circles of depression unable to experience happiness. Everywhere I went the sun followed me with a hateful glare cursed me silently. I almost melted in his heavy breaths. He launched tense fireballs at me boiling with rage and disappointment, wishing to suffocate me. The sky spit at me in disgrace and shame.
The clouds demanded to show me how many tears were cried for the people I have killed. Every rain drop was a reminder of my failure and cowardness. It fell on my skin, ice cold, yet again reminding me of what my heart was bound to become. The sound as they continuously hit the flour resembled a fire’s blazing sparkles. The wind slapped me across my face over and over again. It whispered in my ear. So quit yet such poignant stabbing accusations. It broke into my hut and overawed my body with needle-like numbness from the shuddering chill.
The whispers grew into exasperating screams until I could not sleep. It slammed doors and raised the sand from the ground, commanding it to attack me. Stop! I wanted it to stop! No more torture. I fell hopelessly upon my knees and screamed at the top of my lungs, begging god for help, for forgiveness. ‘Have I gone mad? ’ –  I asked the clear blue staring back at me blankly. I repeated the phrase over and over again until my defenceless sobs and weeps merged the words. I could not stop crying. I clutched the soil between my fingers for some feeling of control as if to grasp hold of myself.
The salty tears kept rolling and as they came in contact with my torn, scared skin a shiver of sharp pain would emerge. God didn’t reply. God wasn’t there. Only the devil. I asked him what I should do and the answer was simple: stop caring. Let myself be tamed by the evil because the good can never be happy. He stretched out a hand to me but as I reached it for help to get up I simultaneously shook it as an agreement to a deal. I sold my soul. The next morning I woke up with the feeling of enlightenment. I killed people with no remorse, no guilt, no regret nothing except the feeling of power.
I fed on it and I breathed it in with the stench of the dead. It felt good. For a moment I felt almost happy in an illusionary way, as a smoked in the white power-like substance, which my master had let me share with him as a sign of approvement as if welcoming me. To what, I wasn’t sure. That night I danced with a bottle of alcohol in the middle of a fire we set to the village. I trod on dead bodies or some even alive but eventually they would be dead, they couldn’t escape. I raped countless women. Daughters, maybe sisters, maybe mothers, who cares?
Not the puppets on the other side of the world, that’s for sure; drinking their coffees and stirring their teas, with their diamond necklaces worn as a ‘fashion statement’ because it resembles the one worn by a celebrity. Completely oblivious. Most of them incapable of doing anything other than follow footsteps. We, however, refused to follow or live in someone else’s master plan. That’s why we’re called rebels. The rebels. Our motto was to join us or die. If we didn’t see much use in then it was die or die more painfully (it mostly came down to our mood). We declared war with authorities because they had power et we still suffered in hunger, poverty and disease. This was if we were willing to perform back-breaking labour for the rest of our lives. Otherwise death would catch up on you in days, if you’re lucky you might last a year maximum. It seemed as if the government was not based on democracy but rather the fear of death. The devils reign over my mind lasted for a long time or more perceptively it lasted over 1000 deaths by my own hands until the blood dried underneath my finger nails was would not wash away. The only way out of this mad world is death. Now is the time. Now.

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