Misha will not get a blade, he'd have a bullet take him out.
It would start, the beating of my heart, as I imagine it clearly, too cowardly to end it myself. I will imagine my Lord and me playing chess; my pawn is beaten and scratched, facing the opposing team of angels and warriors. My king is down, my queen is dead. My brothers in arms are knocked over. I cannot take a piece from my Lord because the game is rigged. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have sin in my blood; I am playing for a team that is not my own flag, yearning for a rearrangement of red, white, and blue. My flag patch is being torn thread by thread, over and over, my breath ragged. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I am not a proud man; I did not do my mother and father well. I left them to rot on white snow. Father, I am sorry, my Lord. I am not a proud man, I am not ready to face you, as I struggle to breathe. Cut by glass, my shoulder shot. Father, forgive me, I sinned. This cross feels like it's branding me in my hands. What's left of them, when I was tricked into seeing the light that took half my face and digits. Father, I am a sinner, and I do not want your forgiveness. I know your watching me, up there, watching me give up the fight. I can't breathe, blood drizzling out of my mouth. If they keep shooting, Father. I am alone in this world. They are hunting me. I hear them coming closer. I looked back. Feeling the dull sting of bullets ripping through flesh. Nobody is coming for me, Lord. "Amen." I utter as I stare down the barrel, the muzzle flash, my head jerks back. Is the muzzle flash the light of the lord, or the prickling of my eyes and the impact dotting behind my lid?