Blue--He Had Brown Eyes

He had eyes, they were dark brown, but glossed over now. He seemed to be around the same age as me, maybe we could have been friends if it weren't for the standing situation. He was a private by rank, I could see it on his patch. I say “was” but he's lying right in front of me, clutching his rifle with a shocked expression stuck on his face, as if he were stone. All the color that may have been on his face before has been flushed out, leaving his face white as snow. Funny thing is, I'm not exactly regretting my actions, or at least I'm telling myself that. I mean he was going to shoot me if I didn't pull the trigger first. Or maybe he would've surrendered, after all he was alone. Was he a deserter? Maybe he didn't agree with what he was fighting for, if he even knew. After all, I was drafted and maybe he was too. Forced to fight for something he didn’t even understand, against an enemy who he himself had no personal quarrels with. No. Truth is I am afraid. I'm afraid that my soul will be damned to hell for killing another of God’s children. I'm afraid that I may see this young soldier in my nightmares. But that doesn't matter. What matters is him. And he's still staring at me just as the moment I shot him down. Hell, what about his family, what if he had kids or someone he loved? How will they get along without him? I'll be a murderer in their eyes for taking him from them. I can’t even conceive the spiral of emotions that they may face when hearing of his end. I could guess he had a mother by how young he was and I could guess that this news would be heartbreaking and I would be the one who put her through the pain of her own child’s life being taken away before she could have her final words. I can only hope they had made their peace before he left. Or maybe he was an orphan who had no one to look after him. That scenario doesn’t make me feel any better, in fact it makes me feel worse, thinking he had no one who cared for him. I would be the one who had ended his dreams of ever coming back to find love or acceptance in this mad world. That’s it. This world is the reason why we were put in this situation and why I’m even drawing up scenarios based purely on the fact and observation that he was in his youth before he was shot. Would he have done the same for me? If this was the other way around would he have pitied me? I wondered, staring blankly into his eyes. But really, maybe I should just get used to this. Maybe this the first step of becoming a true war hero and I just have to keep on going and not question my superiors. Come a couple of years they'll look at me with respect. That's if, if I live that long. I wonder who else feels the same as I do. Who else has wondered of their first kill, was it someone who seemed to resemble them as well? My mind is full of questions that I’m asking for the sake of a dead man so maybe he can lay to rest and I can put my mind at ease. I’ll close his eyes so can sleep and just get on with the war. I see his dog tags and read the information to myself, “Frederic Bernard”. I repeat that name in my head as I go on. Frederic Bernard, the kid with brown eyes.