I cried when I killed my first man. He leant against me. His warmth. His blood. Everything he was and ever would be pooling around us.
Nothing matters after that. Six years into an architecture degree. Do you have any idea of how boring that is? No. Because you do it. That’s life and it’s dull and repetitive and there’s the next day, the next paper. And it’s so fucking pointless. I got my draft papers in March. Cold. I went to war in June and I killed him. The first.
Life is safe. You go on and on and on and jump through all these little hoops. But death is eternal. You look down the barrel and in that moment you see no further. No next battle. No greater war. Going home doesn’t matter. All you see if the blackness that will be you if you don’t pull the trigger first. Your heart beats faster. Everything’s sharper, sweeter. More alive. And then you realise you’ve seen the edge of your own mortality and you have to get back to that cliff edge and lean over again because these plains just can’t compare.
I need it now. I can scratch a blueprint in the ground. But I need to put another man there first.
Prompt originally posted by yelloyo1 on reddit and received 43 upvotes.