The war had started months ago, but now it felt like it had been years. He had no choice but to fight— they told him he wouldve been killed or worse if he refused.

He tried to follow orders, tried to swallow back the disgusting feeling he felt whenever he watched someone die. He taught himself how to stop feeling bad about what he had to do. He just wanted to go back home, he wanted to see his little brother and his parents, thats what kept him going.

But now, as he stood a few steps away from your injured form, crumpled on the ground with a nearly destroyed leg, he couldn’t stop the guilt from rushing in. You were young, he could tell it from your face. A roundish face and big eyes, the innocence in them diminished by the war. You looked the same age as his little brother had been when he’d left home for the draft.

He couldn’t get the thought of him out of his head as he looked at you. He thought about him, about if he had been drafted instead, if his little brother was in your position now with someone else pointing a gun at him. He felt sick.

He thought about how his mother would feel if she were here right now. His mother had taught him to be empathetic.

He couldn’t disobey orders, he knew that, if he hesitated it could cost him his life, but he felt frozen. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, not when his mind kept replacing your face with his little brothers. Not when you and his little brother could’ve been friends if not for the war.