afafa

Red. It’s all I see in the once luminous ocean that once sparkled with the magic of a thousand sea creatures; only now every grain of sand is tainted crimson and every fish is surely dead. Poisoned. There is only one thought when I look at the ocean: it reminds me of the Red Sea from the holy bible, only the actual Red Sea is as holy as God himself and isn’t painted in blood.
I feel the swaying boat underneath me lurch and I am suddenly thrown onto the metallic scented shore.
My grizzled hands clutch onto the gun and aim for their target over the sand dunes. I can hear the shouts and agonized screams echo from all around me as the ones who have lost, fall in a bloody heap and the victorious move further into battle.
I find myself trip over a mangled body on the ground and – while trying to climb to my feet – my hands grab the soldier’s on the ground. Rather than have his fingers loosely curl over a gun, they’re holding a small black and white photo. The soldier is sitting on a small beige couch with a young girl and boy sitting comfortably in his lap.
Why is he holding a photo? There wasn’t a single weapon within his range.
In the midst of war, I hadn’t the time to ponder on that and needed to move on. I passed more fallen soldiers spread among the sand – many missing limbs that have probably receeded with the tide.