FicWad

This is based off the Ghost of You video. I own nothing.

The day has finally come. Life as we know it is soon to be over. Those of us who live through this are never going to be the same, Every time we close our eyes, we'll be forceeed to relive it, the scenees of death, playing out behind out closed eyelids. The screams of the dead and the dying, the mortally wounded, the maimed, will echo in our ears. Even in our sleep, we wll be unable to escape this day.

But for now, we're all smiles, in our boats, darwing near to shore. The sea crashes onto the beach loudly below the overcast skies. Several minutes later, we too wash up with the waves. The loud rumbling of the boats on the gravel is nearly enough to rattle the teeth out of our skulls.

Now, there's the crunch as hundreds of us begin to run up the beach. Then, the hail of bullets begin. They're shooting at us, and we're shooting back. The "enemy" isn't all that much older than us. That soldier over there looks like he just graduated from elementary school last week.

Our comrades are falling, while our enemies are also falling. Most are dead by the time they hit the ground. The unlicky ones are still alive, being trampled, screaming in paina. They're left to bleed out slowly, unable to be saved. Even if there were enough doctors, there's little that they can do for these men. They don;t even have anything to ease their pain.

The shrapnel rains down on us, killing some, wounding hundreds more, some for life. But we keep shooting and falling, being hit and dying. I'm stuck here forever more, forever reliving the D-Day invasion, the day that I died. Soon enough, I'll be shot again, like I am, every day. The shot that killed me, slowly, and painfully, just like so many other soldiers here died. I can never escape the shot, no matter how hard I try.

I wish that I had told Gerard that I was sorry for all the petty arguments that we'd had, and that he was an awesome brother. I wish I'd told Mom a proper goodbye. I wish I'd told Frank and Ray how much of amazing friends they were. I didn't know Bob all that well, but I wish that I'd been able to spend at least some time with him. I should've asked Alicia to marry me.

But it doesn't matter anymore, right? I'm dead. Dead!

Me, Michael James Way, dead before 22 years old. Dead of war injuries, like so many millions of other soldies. I'm guessing this is hell, being forced to constantly relive my death. I know that the Vikings had their Valhalla, where they fought and died during the day, and during the night they were healed and restored to life, so they could fight again, but nobody in my family is a Viking. So why am I forced to keep reliving this?

Here comes the bullet again.