Torment of Life

The glass with cognac broke as he smashed it on the wall. He tried to scream, but a hoarse croak was all he heared. A long time ago his voice had power over many hundred soldiers, but now it is brittle and most of his servants are fallen. They died in a pointless battle he was responsible for. All that happened many years ago, but the feelings of guilt and failure were haunting his memories and dreams again and again.

He drank in order to forget, but the vision of battle seemed to get the more realistic the more he drank. But today, as he has just decided, he wanted to stay sober. He looked at the shards of the glass at the wall while sitting in his rocking chair, swaying up and down. The strong booze ran over the broken glass and made its way through the old rugs into the ground, similar to his guilt, which made its way into his crumbling mind. Sticky. Unstoppable. Was this life worth living? Or better, was he worth living this life? His look ran over the wall in front of him. He looked at the pictures hanging there. His wife who has left him. His long grown up children. Children. Noone of his destroyed troop ever returned home to his wife and kids to laugh with them and be happy that this is finally over. Even worse, most of his soldiers have still been children themselves, and their trust in him has sent them to doom.

He shook off his intentions and took another deep drink directly from the bottle. He had to think of his old rifle, rusting in the attic. Was it still useable? It doesn\'t matter, one single shot would be enough for him. One single shot as it has sent many before him into death. He took a second, long and final drink from the bottle. After all, this should have been the last one numbing him in this life. Determined he slowly walked up to the attic.

Finally he stood in front of the old closet in which he stored his weapons. He has banned it into this exile to never see it again. He opened it. With disgust he took every murder weapon out of it, holding it in his quivering hands. How many men have been struck down by these? A hundred? A thousand? He was close to falling down, but managed to grab the closet and found his balance again. With the last of his remaining strength he took his old rifle. He released the safety catch and put the barrel in his mouth. What would await him on the other side of the tunnel? A tunnel which many before him have passed, now he would follow them as well. Relief? Eternal torment? As his finger was searching for the trigger he started to stagger more and more. Dizzed by the alcohol and his thoughts he lost his balance and fell on an old bag with military uniforms from the old days. Sleep overcame him immediately. His past was awaiting him already in his dreams.