Who is freedom for? - short story
Mud clings to my boots as I drag them across this trench, rifle slung over my shoulder. This place stinks. It stinks of sweat, tears, gun powder, and rot – the rot of men who didn’t make it out. Heroes, they’ll call them, without knowing any more about them other than where their death bed is. Shells and grenades go off in the distance, but not close enough. Not enough for it to matter. It does not matter to me, not to my beating heart and warm body, and it won’t matter once my heart stops and my body goes cold. Is this not freedom? When the death lingering near me does not phase me? What did they think they fight for? I console myself with the thought that I know better how to fight for freedom. I know better than to fight for freedom.
My mate appears beside me. He speaks to me of his dreams after the war is over. That he will return to a girl whom he still thinks loves him. He speaks to me about the glory he holds to be able to fight in the front line for freedom. I simply nod. I always nod, because it does not matter any more to me than these rotting corpses do.
I am an ill man. I do not have such aspirations about the war. I do not have dreams, or ideas, and they call me sick. They praised me once, calling me brave, after I’ve told them I’ve got no fear of death. They said I am honorable and that my legacy will outlast me. I understand that it therefore must matter. But I am ill, so it does not. It does not, therefore I’m ill.
Bullet from the distance. Deafening. My body does what it must. Silence. But I was truthful. I am no more scared of this bullet than I am of the silence. Hit the floor. Keep low. Cover. The body does what it must to keep itself alive. I hear someone shouting prayers. Does he think the enemy does not have god on their side? Then who is more worthy, who will be the one that their god listens to? It must be that it does not matter to god either.
Another day, another battle.
At the barracks, I get called brave again. I feel envy from them. And I pity them. They celebrate another day alive, only for tomorrow to find them on the battlefield. They celebrate nearing the end of the war.
Another day, another battle.
I look at my rifle. Out there, my body does what it must to survive. But here, it yearns for freedom. I am thinking, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. That would make me happy. I am no longer waiting for the day when I will be liberated. Enough of this freedom talk. Guns have the power to either make you a hero, or a coward. The war outside is senseless. The war inside is worse. “For freedom”, they shout, stepping outside in the cold mud. “For freedom”, says the general.
If I lost out there, they’ll call me a hero, they will hold a flag.
But if I lose my war, they'll call me a coward.
“For freedom”, I say when I pull the trigger.