The wounded Soldier (descriptive essay)

The Wounded Soldier

A blast of cold air hits on his face like the blade of a shredding knife. Bodies of fallen comrades and enemies lay all around him. The smell of flesh from both sides of the war together with the dust and smoke almost made him sick. He has never been more aware and cautious, cowering in fear at the sounds of machine guns. The thought of reuniting with his family is the only hope that gave him the strength to continue, allowing him to forget about the inclement taste of blood and dirt; and the fear of death. On the ground laid metallic bullet shells, shining like diamonds, with edges sharp as spears. A fully loaded weapon was within his reach. He quickly grasped onto it and aimed at his enemies, firing down each and every one of them. The clinging sound of bullet casings pierced through his ears. A sudden thud in the chest almost wiped out all his thoughts, he was shot. He finally reached a friendly base, quickly pulls off by the side and laid on a dusty bench with hundreds of bullet holes on it. He clutched his heart with pain. Blood seeped through his dusty and crumpled soldier uniform, leaving a dark red patch on it. The blood dripped off his fingertips and landed on the ground like an abandoned ink pen with ink cascading across the floor. He pealed off his uniform gently, revealing his blood-filled bullet wound, the uneven chunks of flesh laid disorderly in the horrifying wound, the faint black shadow of the bullet hid partly in it. The skin surrounding was rotting black. It was a sharp contrast against the soldier’s white pale skin. The soldier winced at the disgust of his wound, giving him goosebumps that chilled down his spine. Just then, a loud ear-breaking band shook the ground. Shrieks and cries of agony filled the air. A crowd of white smoke slithered into the air. The soldier immediately straightened himself, he grabbed his gun, limped painfully, resting himself on the wall behind for support, leaving bloody and frightening fingerprints on the wall. As he did so, he took a deep breath and dashed towards the smoke covered area. He raised his gun and aimed carefully at on of his enemies. He pressed the trigger with his last breath and shot his enemy. He fell to the ground gasping for air. Sweat dripped down his forehead; he felt drained. He put his shaking hands into his pocket and took out an envelope, yellow with age. He looked at it with tears in his eyes, “Sorry,” he murmured, “Sorry that I can’t come back to be with you. I can’t carry on anymore, I’m too tired, too tired to live. Take care…” He sighed, and he closed his eyes, leaving this world of desperation.