The sun lays on the horizon like a wounded soldier, bleeding into a puddle of red, painted amongst the sky like a warriors face paint.

The trees shake, reaching up like one’s limbs, weak from battle. The man sits beneath a willow, the tree bent forwards like a veteran, cane in hand.

The man sighs into his palm, wiping away the weary tiredness. He straightens his back and stands, his spine popping. One long scar lay down his cheek, stretching all the way to his shoulder. He winces, picking up his gun.

“Back to work,” says the soldier to himself, hefting the gun over his shoulder. He’s dressed in his suit, camouflaged into his surroundings. He heads for the woodline, his army-cut hair beneath a cap. Slowly, he settles into the damp ground beside a pine, propping his gun up on a rock.

“Enemy lines, southeast boarder, 2AK415, coming in with the tanks. Rig them up, let’s go, let’s go!” He remembers the words from his commander. He remembers standing in the field, the bloody horizon casting shadows across the plain battlefield. Scared to death but fighting for what was right. “Blow that bit up! GO!”

A man comes in front of the soldier behind the rock. The man fires four rounds into the small body, pumping him full of gunpowder and led. The soldier screams a battle cry, not stopping until the gun is done with its rounds.

When the boy falls to the ground, the soldier sees what he’s done. His son lays splayed, his blood spilt onto the dust of the day. Holes riddle his body, his chest heaves with a fighting breath as the dad runs over, dropping to his hands and knees.

“Son, son, I’m sorry- I… no, no-“

The boy reaches up for his dad’s hand. He’s only six, “It’s okay, daddy. I’m going to see momma now. I’ll go to heaven with her.”

The soldier screams, burying his head in the boy’s bloody chest as his lungs stop working and his eyes stop flitting in pain. His son’s breath stops, his brown eyes staring up at the bloody sky, his still-warm hand still wrapped around his father’s.

“I didn’t mean to,” screams the soldier, his face red. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Come back, please. Please.”

Slowly, the boy’s hand falls from the soldier’s, limp with death. The man picks it up and squeezes it, waiting for a response. When there is none, the man falls back, reaching for his gun. He skitters to add another bullet. Hyperventilating as he puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth.

And swallows a bullet for his son.