The sky roared and mother earth wept tears of blood.  Aluminum demons plummeted to the ground below – their explosions shot sharp shrapnel in all directions, miniature knives driving into the hopeful and weary hearts of many.  The sand of the beach was made up of limbs and organs.  It was 1944, and my little brother had just died beside me.

The war had ravaged and raged for seven years by now – so many had died, so many had lost.  Mothers mourned and fathers hung their head in sorrow as they maintained their stoic and stern appearance.  I know my dad would when he got word of Jake.  That’s my little brother.  We were at Omaha Beach when he got shot down.  I’ll never forget that day – one second I was smilin’ at him and telling him it’d be OK.  I looked away, and in that split second, it all happened. When I looked back, all I remember seeing was half of his head gone.  But I couldn’t anything – I couldn’t help the boy I spent my childhood with, the boy I played catch with on sunny days during our summer vacation. He was gone, and it was my fault.  Jack wouldn’t have joined if it wasn’t for me – he always had to imitate me.  I’ll never forgive myself.

As if that day wasn’t enough – the war lasted for… I lost track how much longer.  All I know is, I survived.  My buddies died, my platoon sergeant died, was replaced, and the next one died, too.  I came face-to-face with a few close calls, don’t get me wrong – I don’t get called a cripple for no reason.  Lost my left leg in Waldenburg, Germany, and that’s when I got my honorable discharge.  I was no good to them – fighting in a wheelchair isn’t the easiest thing to do, I’ll tell you.  The remainder of my platoon sent me off with a few gifts, and crappy though they were, I loved them.  They even took me to one of those gentleman’s clubs – boy that was a real hoot.

I got home sometime in late November – it was cold and white where my family lived.  The sun’s rays seemed to increase the chill, giving everything a dull golden aura and reflecting off the snow, making the world seem a bit brighter than normal. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but that didn’t stop the flakes from drifting to earth in a lazy, half-wit manner.  Though death and pain had marred me, it was great to be home.

The feeling was short-lived.  I spent the days locked in my room, sleeping most of the time.  My parents worried; my sister worried.  I just slept and screamed.  The nightmares were horrible – every night I relived those moments, those horizons of victory and the sinister defeat that snatched the sunlight away.  Every night I saw his face – every night I saw him fall to the ground stone dead.  I had stripped him of the life he deserved, the life he was intended to live.  It should have been me taking that bullet, but the bastards got the wrong guy.

They’d just started calling us heroes – veterans of the greatest tragedy the planet had seen.  They could paint the words any color in the rainbow, attach any connotation to it, but I felt no heroism through my veins.  I felt murder and terror clog my veins, their product drenching my heart with hate and grief and remorse.  I wanted to take it all back.  There was no justification for the places we ended up in, my brother and I – the government decorated me, praised me, and my life was good.  He was six feet under.  If that was justice, then I have no idea why I served the years I did – if justice wouldn’t correct the misjudgment it had made, I would.

I’ll be turning in my grave before I hear anyone dare say I wasn’t grateful for the life I was given – I was more than grateful, and while I will forever stand by that statement, I wasn’t grateful for the abrupt end to Jake’s.  Nothing mattered anymore – the dreams, the depression, the lackluster my life had become.  I served my duty, and I fought for a place in this world.  It’s only taken me this long to realize just what a horrible world I struggled for.  I’m sorry, mom – I’m sorry, dad.  I’m sorry, Rosie – I love you all.  

Please bury me beside Jake.