Dearest Emma (Short Story)

*Before I begin, I should let you know that this was written from a prompt in 2018. The prompt said this "The war has been ravaging your country for years. You fought, you shed blood, you did your part. And yet a mistake is going to be your undoing. Write a last letter before your execution to your daughter whom you will never come back to". Note that this story is such a draft, it's not even funny :) But maybe you'll have a good laugh....Enjoy!*

Dearest Emma,

It's been seven months since you were born, you've probably forgotten the sound of your mother's voice, or the feel of your mother's sweaty hands after pilates or the closeness of my breast. In fact, your memory of me is likely gone. Better still, they have promised not to tell you of the pain I have caused. But you deserve to know. Your father will likely say I died in war, your friends will say I was a hero, you might even believe it.

But I'm far from it.

I have committed crimes for the sake of our country, too shameful to recount on paper. I deserve less respect than you could ever imagine. But if you ever knew what I have done, you might despise your mother's name and, Emma, this would cause me to die once again in the Heaven's above: a supernatural feat that nothing but a broken heart could ever achieve.

Tomorrow, I am to face the punishment of my mistake, one that does not deserve a court room plea, for I know I am guilty. The ghosts of the town cry out as much, as I look down in shame. If the cause of my execution will mean anything to you, if it will cause hurt, if it will cause you to curse my name to the hell below, please fold up this piece of paper, burn it and stomp on the embers: the remainder of my past. Leave no trace of me and forget me, so that you may spare my life.

Read on, if you must know. The next rain that falls from the sky will be tears of remorse from me. And, dear one, sorrow over my actions can hardly be expressed. The only thing I can ask is forgiveness.

When the sunlight stopped for the day, and the shooting had ceased. When the loud foreign languages ceased to give out their final commands, I knew that we were finished...temporarily. Sitting in the battlements, my gun facing westward towards their barricades of sandbags, my weary body slipped down and a sigh of relief escaped my chapped lips. The war was over, at least for tonight. Next to me, a soldier turned his neck, peering from the corner of his barricade, almost as if he wanted more. Or maybe he was simply expecting more.

"Hey man, the war isn't over. But it is for today, the set of the sun is our cue to leave."

He sprawled our his legs and lay his head against the barricade. He was pale. He closed his eyes and by this point, he looked as dead white as the moon at night.

"And the rise of dawn is our cue to live blind, once again, as to which of us might die next."

I turned my neck around, like he did, peering this time not at the enemy barricades, but the hundreds of people who lay, painting the most glorious scene of death: unity until final breath. Just look at those paintings your dad has maybe kept over the past few years, and you might understand my appreciation for art, especially as it occurs in life.

"Yet we live in faith that before either you or I die, that white flag of hope will be raised above those bodies we see before us today. Those enemy troops will come pouring through - "

"-Reaching into their breast pocket," he continued.

"-and pulling out a handkerchief. They will wave it, begging us to stop this madness." We laughed. His cheeks turned pink.

*And that is literally where I ended the story. Maybe you enjoyed it. It was kinda fun typing it out and reminscing over bad work. :)*