another short

Alright, this week was so much more busy than I expected. I didn't get more than a page written in the Rebellious Spy. My apologies, but it happens. In it's place I present the other short I wrote for my creative writing class. Not going to lie, it's depressing, but I was practicing one character in one place. This is about emotions that whip through us and how often we make mistakes about the sitituation. I'm not going to ask you to enjoy this. Just read and ponder. What will you get out of this story?
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Casualties of War

Kevin woke up slowly; he noticed few things as he finally came around. He was laying on something hard, but not ground hard. A cot? And the air was cool. His thoughts felt thick in his head and slow to move. He tried to remember what had happen. A memory flashed behind his closed eyes. He was standing on a stone battlement, watching as an army threw themselves at the outer wall of the fort they were sent to defend.

“That’s right, I was fighting.” The enemy had climbed the wall with ladders; there had been too many of them to stop completely. The memory was broken as he remembered the fight begin. He could see dead men’s faces as he sliced through them with his ax. Then he saw another face, one important to him. His brother had fallen, his leg shot and blood was spraying from his thigh where the arrow jutted out. Kevin remembered as he fought his way to Jason’s side. Just as he had reached him, something hit him from behind and then blackness.

Finally, Kevin opened his eyes. He saw a ceiling above him, though the room seemed dimly lit. “Where am I?” Grimacing, he sat up cautiously and looked around the bare room. Except for his cot, the small room was deprived of anything else, even a chamber pot. There was, however, a door.

Kevin stared at the door. That was where the light was coming from; from the crack at the floor. It flickered, an even flicker of someone walking. There were people on the other side.

“Then why am I not hearing them?” Kevin frowned and slid his feet onto the cold stone floor. He supposed it was because of the blow to the head. He had heard old soldiers talk about ringing or deafness after such a hit.

Testing his legs as he stood, he found he could support his weight, though he did have to throw his arms out to balance himself. Once he was sure he would not fall, he went for the door. For some reason he could not explain, he was afraid of what could be behind that door. Telling himself he was being a fool he took the five steps to it, grasped the handle, and started to turn it.

It stopped.

Kevin froze as the chill went through his body, his mind racing. He tired again to turn the handle but it refused to move pass that one spot. “No,” he whispered, shameful tears streaming from his eyes He rattled the unmovable handle. “No.” Sobbing, he thudded his head on the door. He knew what a locked door meant. No ally would do this to him. He was a prisoner of war.

“Think!” he demanded of himself. “You’re still alive; they must want something from you.” It could be ransom. He was, after all, the second son of High Councilor Rod Koon, head advisor to the king. It had been a year since he last spoke with his father, but he was still important enough for a ransom. And unlike his older brother, he was easy to spot even in the heat of battle. He was the one with the orange hair.

“They must have Jason too,” Kevin realized. It was no secret the two brothers had joined the army together when war was declared against the invading nation and stayed by each other’s side. “That’s it. They’re holding us for ransom.” He couldn’t stand much longer with the nerves though. Shaking as if the cold had taken him, he returned to the cot and sat. He slouched and rubbed his face, resigning himself to wait. Sooner or later, they would come tell him of their plans for him.

The buzzing began in his ears. “At least I’ll be able to hear again.” It was a strange thought. He was being held against his will and he was glad he would hear again? Kevin almost smiled; he certainly had his priorities set strait.

After the buzzing faded, another noise replaced it: screaming. He couldn’t tell how many voices cried out in pain. He flinched at the sound of agony, wishing momentarily he had lost his hearing. He tried to ignore it; he almost succeeded until he heard a scream he recognized. A scream he usually heard in the heat of battle, not with that sound of pain.

“Jason,” he whispered, his eyes wide with shock. They were torturing him! His brother, a man more important than he was. He wanted to beat against the door, yell for his brother, but the sounds of Jason’s pain chained him to the spot with fear.

Then suddenly his brother’s screams stopped. There was silence for a minute until the screaming of other men began again. But Kevin couldn’t hear them, neither did he care. He sat there, stunned, one thought running over and over in his mind. “They killed him. THEY KILLED MY BROTHER!” He knew then, he would not be kept alive. They would kill him; they had no intentions of letting either of them live.

“I will not die at their hands like this!” Kevin popped the top button off of his coat and broke it open. His father had called it insurance when he gave it to his sons, in case they were ever caught. Kevin rolled the death pill between his fingers. His father did not want his sons to die in painful ways; this was a quick end. Jason had gotten rid of his, joking that he would never be caught. Kevin had pretended to follow his brother’s example, but he kept it. He didn’t want to die by torture. Steeling himself, he threw the white pill into his mouth and clamped his own jaw shut. He forced himself to swallow it. He felt it as it went down his throat. Breathing deeply, he waited for the end.

Kevin didn’t feel the seizure as it took him. He didn’t feel the floor as he threw himself from the cot. His head banged against the stone floor, a constant repeating of pain damaging his brain. His heartbeat doubled, sending fresh pain through his shuttering body. Kevin could vaguely hear a cry from the door. It had opened. He could not see the person who grabbed his head, trying to keep him still. Suddenly, he stopped, his eyes staring towards the final freedom.
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Jason cradled the head of his dead brother, weeping over the body twisted by the seizure. The doctor who had admitted him into Kevin’s room stood by the door, watching the scene. He too was bent with sorrow.

“I am sorry,” the doctor said, finally walking to his side. He pried Jason from his brother’s body and helped him into a wheeled chair. Jason turned his head away from Kevin and the stump that was now his leg. He had blacked out when they had amputated his leg. He just regained consciousness and wished to see his brother.

“Now he’s dead.” Jason remembered the battle they had won. He had received the fatal wound in his leg when his brother came to protect him. Kevin had been hit across the head by an enemy, but the reinforcements came before they could be taken captive.

Jason remembered the conversation he had with the doctors before they took him into the operating room. They had advised putting Kevin into this room for him to recover from the blow. They had also locked the door so no one would accidentally stuff dead bodies and disregarded limbs in with him. Jason had agreed; the rooms were filling at a disturbingly fast rate.

“How?” he demanded of the doctor. He wanted to stand and tower over the man, but that advantage was lost to him. “How did he die? He was just fine when he was put in here.”

“My guess,” the doctor said, kneeling down and checking Kevin’s dead eyes, “is that the blow affected his head. It happens sometimes. A strong enough blow can make people have seizures. And sometimes, those seizures are the killing type. There was nothing we could have done.”

Jason gaze returned to his brother’s body, his orange hair sticking out like it always did. “You’re wrong,” he whispered to himself. There was something they could have done. Turning his chair from the doctor, Jason rolled himself out of the room.

There was only one thing he could do: take revenge. Jason wheeled himself down the hall; his tears had dried and his expression hardened. He would make the enemy bleed for their crimes. They would know his pain of his loss before he was done with them.
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This is not a story to enjoy but to make you think. Tell me, what were your reaction to this short? I'm curious. Well, I will try to get more written in the Rebellious Spy, but no promises. Time to go enjoy the rest of Sunday.