The Dead Man's Demise
A man lies tossing in bed, body heavy with regret. He knows it is near the end for him. In fact, he was awaiting it with a sense of apprehension. This wound should have killed him already. Why did he decide to fight some king’s war, and a losing one at that? Desperation, perhaps. The career destined for him was nothing but a pipe dream. There were not enough of his people in this nation. This nation he was to die for. But he could not recall the exact reason now. It all felt so blurry.
Closing his eyes, he could now see everything so clearly, even if it was all just brief flashes and shadowy silhouettes. He could see his wife work at the loom while their youngest tugged at her dress. And he could hear her voice even faintly. The mere thinking of lyrics made him feel even sicker, even heavier with regret. Would the gods damn him for this? He had tried to spend just a little of the night prior easing his mind and praying despite the warnings of the one doctor to stay put, but cannon fire and pain had quickly interrupted him. He’d been wounded in the side, but he’d been holding on for nearly a week now. A week that could have spent itself saving him from his sins or for him to go straight into the afterlife without a heavy head and a sorry heart.
Oh, he hoped that letter he’d penned had got to his darling wife. Hopefully, it will be given to her before he departed from this mortal plane, before the more formal letter thanking him for laying down his life for some fruitless endeavour. Black rage had filled him momentarily as he thought of it. But he better rest. And so, the regrets of his life filtered back in.
And he faded out of it again. Now he could tell not whether it was day or night under the rain and heavy cannon fire. There would be a battle soon, he could tell it, but whether he would live to see it was another matter and not one he much cared for.
“Tu rewaze was nuya sa va…” He mumbled.
And at last, he could think no longer - now just another corpse lost to a failing war.
