lyralamora
Chocobo Breeder
Hi! I'm completely new here, and haven't gotten around to read any of the other stories. So I'm not completely sure if this story is suitable for this forum. It's not fantasy, it's rather short, and it can be a bit difficoult to understand. Also, it's probably a lot of spelling mistakes.... anyways, hope you like it and please comment!! 
GRATITUDE
By Lania
They had been running in a slow pace for about forty minutes when his low spirits turned out to be more than just a hunch. But his feelings of unease where the only warning they had, when they turned the corner of the deserted farm they where passing.
The enemy where standing about two hundred meters down the muddy road. And, though they where the only reason for why he was running in this wrecked weather, it was still the last thing on his mind. He hovered for a secound, hesitant for what to do. The surprise of the encounter, and the sudden surge of fear, mingled with the responsibility for his squad, made it hard to concentrate on giving orders. All those months of training and work seemed so useless, yet they where all he had to turn to, when he looked for his answer. With only eight men, he was outnumbered, but they had the advantage of cover. So the only thing to do was to run behind the rotting wood houses, and pray that the pine was thick enough to stop the bullets. Is where clear to him, even through the shocked daze, that this was no planned attack, or else the enemy would have picked a better place for the battle that was about to come. One of his men peaked around the corner of the secound house, vis à vis the one he was hiding behind. He followed the example, and saw about twelve men jumping down in the shallow road pit. But there where no feelings of compassion or petty for their useless defense. The army had done their job well of wiping those feelings away.
The obvious advantage of their position made him calmer, certain that his number was not yet up. After all, that was what mattered the most. It was suddenly easier to load the rifle and give the orders.
And so they began. All that was to do was simply to peek around the building, and take them out one by one. He did not possess the calm mind that sniping demanded, so he simply fired at will in the right direction, hoping that after a certain amount of bullets, all targets would be down. Following his lead, the troop began their merciless wipe out and it hardly lasted for longer than three minutes.
And then it was over. With slow, uncertain movements, he began to advance towards the fallen men, his troop close behind. Each step down the muddy and slippery road, led him closer to the carnage below. Each step revealed another corpse, another pair of empty eyes. And with each step he closely advanced upon his conscience. When finally at their destination, they discovered that not all the men had died, though that would have been more convenient, both for him, and the enemy. The daze protected him, like a shield that made his actions oddly distant. And nether the wild panic in the eyes of the enemy, nor their pleading, penetrated his cover.
But the bullets did. The three bullets that cut through the quiet landscape reminded him of his own fear. The only thing that really mattered; his life, and how easily it could have been him lying in that ditch. So when his conscience caught up with him at last and he turned away from the survivor of the enemy and ordered the troops immediate return to camp, it was not an act of mercy or compassion towards the solider, but to himself. He spared a mans life, and in so doing secured a clean conscience, and no doubt the eternal gratitude of the enemy.
The night was the worst. It always hurt more then, and the pain made him sleep deprived. That, however, didn’t bother him. The nightmares had returned about the same time as the old pain. His physician told him not to worry, that those kinds of injuries often returned with age, and then he prescribed some pain meds, and showed him the door. But he didn’t want medication. He just wanted to be free of the nightmares, the images that where emanating from the darkness behind his lids.
Every night was the same. The fear and the thumping sensation in his leg kept him awake, staring at the sealing. He new the rose-pattern by hart now, after all those hours of pointless glaring. His wives calm, regular breath was the only sound. After hours of glaring and listening to the night, he fell into a restless slumber. And then, finally dawn broke the horizon. The only exceptions where when it rained. Then he didn’t go to sleep at all.
This particular night was just one of those. He sat in his regular chair by the window, his emotions somehow stronger when he saw the water poring from the night sky, and form small, muddy ponds in the driveway. While polishing his gun, he reminisced over that fatal, rainy day. And the memories brought feelings. But the mingled multitude of anger, panic, false gratitude and pain seemed oddly distant. And overshadowing them all, where the even stronger sensation of pretence. The ritual of the rain, the remembrance and the gun, was one that had been repeated for a near twenty years now. But time had not brought the courage to pull the trigger. He had a sneaky suspicion that the only reason he did this, was to prove to himself what agony he was in. So that the feelings of self-pity and fony gratitude would be somehow justified. So that he could allow himself to hate the man who had spared his life twenty years ago.
They all said he was lucky to be alive. That he should thank God for being granted a secound chance, when so many weren’t. But people didn’t understand. When his life was spared, it was also deprived. Deprived of all those emotion that made the pain worth while. Love, bliss, relief and the guts he would need to end this empty state. No, people didn’t understand. But this was the only thing he could do to explain to himself why he felt no gratitude. Why he didn’t thank God.
At least, it had been until recently. But every rainfull night, the feeling of pretence grew stronger. Simply holding the gun, considering, was no longer enough. How frustrating it was, that the one sensation he needed to feel, in order to do what he needed to do to feel, where not there. A vicious circle indeed.
If he rethought this riddle long enough, perhaps the frustration would finally push him over the edge, and end what should have been ended that rainfull day, in a road ditch twenty years ago.