PTSD
A soldier. That’s all. “What are you slowing down for, Bloomfield?” Boot camp was nothing. You breezed through it. Not too well, but not too shabby. The war’s on. That’s all your parents talked about when you went home. Gonna be a big war hero. Someday. Someday. It’s been three weeks since ‘someday’ was first uttered. Mom and dad? Dead. New Soviet’s special order 7.62x39mm rounds. The little metal bees buzzed through them both. Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield had died happily stupid. You won’t be so fortunate. “Why are you doing this? What drove you to kill?” The New Russian faces seem evermore deserving of the quick lead death you lend them. They burned America right? Ma and Pa would love this, right? Wrong. You see them. Every soldier is them. Every muzzle flash. Every dead civilian you not-so-cautiously step over. They call to you in this hell you forged for yourself. It’s too much. Too much for your weak shoulders to carry. Their death makes you angry. You’ll kill everything with a red hammer-and-sickle stamped and velcroed on its arm. It’s for them you say. You don’t kill for pleasure. You do it for them. I won’t go to hell for vengeance. Surely not. God will protect me for doing this. It’s only fair. It’s only fair…. It’s only….fair…. This is the story of the human. We claim we kill for just reasons. Even convince ourselves why. Please, if this makes it, I beg you heed my warning. Lose not the love for lives. All lives. Any lives. Remember this. Remember that none truly deserve untimely death. Understand that it may be neccessary, but that alone. Please…I beg. As society crumbles, remember. Credit To: Rage Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.