Blood

As the American Civil War takes place, Confederate soldier Sebastian fights his twin brother, the Union soldier Michael. Sebastian comes to his struggle to understand the dark side of war.

“Oh Lord, what have I done?” Sebastian implores while grappling the bowie knife about the assailant’s being. His hands drenched in the enemy’s vital fluids as it streamed out of his blue uniform. Like a swab, the blood reached up to Sebastian’s gray sleeves, tattered in the natural stains of the earth.

            The enemy tittered at Sebastian’s plea. “You ask the Lord for a reply? Where is your God?” he mumbles in the absurdity of his clogged tone with blood streaming out from the corners of his mouth. “Where is he to stop Abraham before piercing his blood? I’m afraid He is not here.”

            “Look at you, Michael. Look at what I have done. The Lord is here, but He has turned his back on me,” Sebastian deplores in anguish. Sebastian attempts to extracts the Bowie out of Michael’s chest. In utter turmoil, Michael grabs a hold of Sebastian’s wrist in opposition of the act.

            “Do not rip it out, Sebastian. Leave me be as I am in the moment. I do not wish to see your face express a wry position. It is like looking into a mirror,” Michael begins to close his eyes until he heads to a crevice in his large lids and lashes facing the sky. He rests his head onto the ground with the sand creeping into his hair.

            “God has not ignored you, brother.” Michael continues.

            “But He has! He is a monster that has caused me to do�"”

            “The Lord cannot help in a place where He is not welcome.” Michael turns his head once again, facing Sebastian. “We have deprived Him from this place. This earth is no place for Him.”

            “But He is welcomed! How could we have possibly set Him aside? We fight for his grace!

            “The absence of such a Creator is resulted in the eradication of His own creation. God has died.”

            LeMat revolvers and Elgin Cutlass pistols thrash in the air as the clashing of the soldiers create a drumming sound, vibrating the ground. Like dominoes, bodies drop and evolve into corpses in the pupas of the grass. Shrieks of the hearts of young men’s scratch the atmosphere.

 

 

“You bloody gray backs! Greedy pigs”

 

      “Go to Hell, you blue bellies! Federalists!”

 

“Oh God! Oh God! Help me!”

 

      “Oh Mother! Where are you now?”

 

 

The air solidifies, causing the arch enemies’ bones to ripple in extraneous shivers. Sebastian’s beard�"that has just begun to grow for a short period of time�"quivers as the goose bumps react to the lowering of temperature. Michael, with his brown eyes without moisture and his pointed nose in a hue of pink, moans as he grasps the Bowie planted onto his person.

Sebastian grows puzzled, his brown eyes without moisture and his pointed nose in a hue of pink, “Michael�"”

“Do not fret, Sebastian. It is only the wind. The blade stings as the cold begins its prologue. The feeling will cease in a few minutes.”

            The sky begins to achromatize as a succession of clouds begin to develop. The heavens grow plain in the absence of the souls that have once inhabited the roofs. The sky softly releases drops of water, kissing the cheeks of the two young men as their mother had done so when they would return from their academics or from their workplace every afternoon.

            Both young men gaze into the abyss above them.

            Sebastian chuckles in disbelief. “What a fool I’ve been, Michael.”

            “And why is that?” Michael whispers in suffering.

            Making a fist in his palm, Sebastian punches the ground until his knuckles rip open and the dirt is suppressed at his open flesh. Closing his eyes in utter regret, he grinds his teeth until his gums spill little twinkles of blood. “We’ve been fighting for the white clouds that brought us the rain. But look, brother. We have been looking in the wrong direction. The treasure has been above us all along.”

            Michael graciously curves the corners of his lips, looking into the eyes of his reflection. “We have been both fools. It is humorous.”

            Michael slowly lifts up his arm, heading to Sebastian. Sebastian holds his hand and grips it into his own. For the first time in ages, they were once again bound. In realization, Sebastian’s eyes begin to stream, leaking in mere moistness down the edge of his cliff.

            “I have always grown in awe in the speculation of how I appear when I weep. It turns out to be as revolting as I had imagined it,” Michael began to toy with him. “Do not cry, soldier. A soldier must not cry on the battle field. I do not wish to see myself cry.”

            Sebastian laughs and wipes his running nose. “After all of this time, we are still the same.”

            “Oh, indeed. You wear the gray coat, and I the blue one. We identified ourselves in these shades of life, but share the same face. But, I cannot deny it that without these shades, we are nothing. We have trapped the ravens; but, in the end we doves have trapped ourselves.”

 Michael whimpers as his body relaxes. The breathing ceased to continue.

 

Releasing his grip on his brother’s hand, Sebastian removes the Bowie from Michael’s corpse. Then, slowly removing his coat, he takes Michael’s.

 

Sebastian rises as the continuous rupture of the other soldiers take a toll in his eardrums. With Michael’s coat in his hand, he spreads out his left arm and inserts the blue sleeve inside. He spreads out his right arm and inserts the blue sleeve inside. Looking back at his brother’s corpse that wears his gray coat, Sebastian smiles. Exposing himself in the center of the field, Sebastian looks up into the clouds and closes his eyes.

“And the dove is released from his cage,” he whispers.

 

A soldier in gray attire looks at him far out of the distance. Setting his revolver, he aims at Sebastian.

 

“I got you, you blue belly.”

 

And the ground vibrates.

Author's Note

Ignore grammatical errors, for I have no doubt that there are numerous ones. Some of the vocabulary is different than of the present day; I like to write in an older style.