VOPW

As the sun burned his face, he continued on down the dusty, desert road. Where he was headed he had know idea. Where he had been you can only imagine. Years of fighting and years of death had taken their toll.

With each step he took he kicked stones and small clouds of dust rose from his boots, boots that had seen as much blood and anger and violence as he has. The boots were dry leather, scarred like his face, cracked and old, on their last mile.

He didn’t speak a word as he passed the small crowd of people outside the lonely roadside café. He kept his head down and continued on his way. Although he was tired and felt as if he could sleep on his feet or at the very least lay down by the side of the road and fall into a deep sleep, he continued on.

The voices in his head kept telling him that they had been victorious, that they had won, that it was worth the cost and the price that would have been paid if they hadn’t acted. He knew they were wrong. He knew the price he was paying and would pay for the rest of his days, a burden that would wound him again and again. With each day he would relive the past, he would remember what had been done and what he had to do. He would continue to live, but his live would still hell for his mind will continue to be a battlefield.