Wilfred Finch Monologue

His name was Finch, Wilbur Finch. Dead. He died from a shot to his lower abdomen. His eyes were cold, drained, and dead. Amongst all of the other fallen soldiers, he stood out the most because of his bold brass ornament that hung from his uniform. A token of remembrance to the days of the past, one where no war was fought. That Finch boy, back in the barracks they said he really knew how to light up a room. Laughter spilled from that corridor and into the mess hall. His family, passed away in a gas leak a few years back. I never really knew how he could keep all that sorrow contained. Some couldn't even cope with the reality of being dragged into some goddamn war when most of us don't even know what we're fighting for. In my ignorant years of being a I always thought guns, tanks, and going war were cool, some macho aesthetic that most boys look up to--now I don't even know if any of us will even make it back. At least the Finch boy knew what he signed
It was to see a future where your loved ones would be safe, and you could guarantee that they would be safe. At the same time, it wasn’t just that--I wanted to be something, something to be remembered for. In history class, you learn about all those greats--yeah most of them claim the name of something from someone who probably spent hours doing research. However, the ones that truly shine, are the ones who give back, the selfless ones. I enlisted myself after graduation, I said my goodbyes, and left for training camp on a monday. My girlfriend, she spoke to me once after that. A couple of years later, a final call that ended it all. It felt like a trophy, after winning something you’d never get back into ever again. It was her that I missed out on, and her that I would never forget. She said to stop leaving voicemails. Had she have had any empathy that day, she might’ve stopped me from leaving that silly little