the long march

The smoke claws at his raw eyes, scratching them as a cat would scratch a couch. He grits his teeth and moves forward. All around him, the earth explodes into tiny pieces, splattering his uniform with mud. The deafening explosions blocked out every other noise. In his mind, he tried to shut out the noise but it enveloped him, just like the smoke he was stumbling through. He could barely make out the shape of the man in front of him. His lungs felt as though they were going to explode, his breath coming in short spurts. If it wasn't for his constant left, right, left, right chant in his head, his stride would be uneven and he would be lost. He needed to keep up. He was the leader for the men behind him. He was all they could see through the blinding smoke. If he was lost, they were all lost. His palms were sweating heavily, making the gun in his hand slip. He gripped it tighter and kept moving. He was so focused on what was ahead of him, the ever-growing stench of burning flesh and wood, he failed to see the small rock at his feet. He lurched forward and fell to his knees. At this point, tears were streaming out of his eyes, leaving little white trails through the mud caked onto his face. Oh how he longed to be home, trudging through the thick, familiar mud of the woods behind his house instead of this foreign mud. This mud which covered everything. He raised his head to the blue sky above him, praying for this all to end. But he got nothing, just a couple of hands pushing at his back, urging him to get up and keep going, marching on forever.