#workings.

[extollvd-blog]

                      what’s that in your bag, dear?                       i hope that’s not a hammer                           i hope it’s just a kiss                                       i pray it’s just a rose                                                                   i can’t even speak                                                               but i really need to ask                                                        was it something that i did?

[celestiii]

                                    i      was      just     a    kid                                     that   you could not  forgive                                     because      it's       harder

                                       i   was     just    a   kid                                        and all i   really wanted                                        was       my       father

[unethicalrush-blog]

This is a Battlefront. <John's Story 1>

This is a Battlefront --

View: Third person. Focused mainly on John. Rating: Everyone. Some war violence/language may be present. Overview: This drabble was written to describe the nature of war: the horrible, the gruesome and the unforgettable. John seems to differ from everyone else and, time and time again, he wants to believe that that isn't true. Purpose: Further develop John's character.

Prelude:

The soldier's war has, for the longest time anyone could possibly remember, different from the politician's war. One very often enlisted and, when asked as to why, would respond with 'I am doing it for freedom' or, just as common, 'It is for my country' only to realize that, as they sprinted down the terrain under the scorching, blistering sun that they had been fooled and played with by their government. They were brainwashed to believe in such noble causes. In war, there is no noble cause. In the end, war has two completely different meanings: A civilian's meaning and a fighter's meaning. These two definitions are not the same, not nearly. They are impossibly and totally different, the soldier knowing full well what warfare really means.

Some men escaped the battlefield with a few nightmares. Others staggered out with wide-eyes, frequent night terrors, visions and severe and permanent psychological damage. A few would leave with missing limbs and the picture of their friend that had died to preserve the life they still had now, embracing the photo as if that would somehow bring their fallen comrade, their brother, back to life.

John Watson, however, was of a selected few who left feeling anxious, remembrance and agitation. He thought frequently of the bloody screams that would ring loudly in his head like cannon fire blaring until his ears gave out. He thought of the bodies that littered the desert floor after a horrible shootout and the lives he hadn't been able to save. John slept on the feel of the rush, the adrenaline that used to fill his veins in such abundance that his heart raced in ways unknown. 

The adrenaline... It was so exciting. War was such a demonic, devilish thrill that he  eagerly experienced. 

Eagerly.

It felt inhumane, almost repulsive, to describe it as such. By no means was John a fan of seeing men die. He wasn't heartless. But, whether it be any better, he liked to stick his neck out in the shower of enemy bullets so long as he felt that rush, that rush that only life versus death could bring.

John Watson could have easily been described as inexplicably mad to the eyes of society, and not once would he be able to denounce that claim honestly. Not even he knew how to describe it. 

He didn't even want to believe it.