Behind the Blade
Two men fell silent beneath the pale sky. This moment was theirs.
One of the men knelt in a patch of stained snow, clutching onto his chest as blood seeped through his trembling fingers. He knew this was likely the end of him, his final few breaths. Despite this, it wasn’t the thought of what came next that frightened him. No, every man died. Instead, it was the thought of his past, of all those people and families he would never get the chance to apologize to.
The other man stood straight, a statue in the snow. His body bled, covered head to toe in cuts and gashes. Once, he would have been bothered by the pain. Now, he took it in stride. As his father always stressed, pain was a choice. To choose pain was to accept weakness. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to block it out, he felt a pain deep inside. It didn't sting or burn, it suffocated his every thought and memory.
The moment was theirs, but this battle was not.