Once they broke through the trench lines, I knew it was all
over. I didn’t care who shot me, but since I knew someone would, I deserted,
and headed home.
I was probably a few hours ahead of them when I climbed the
stairs up to the apartment I’d hoped to raise my kids in, and called out to the
woman I would be spending the rest of my life with.
She didn’t answer, slumped as she was in front of her
canvas, the blood dried slightly.
I lost her, but at least I saw true joy one last time.
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