deepundergroundpoetry.com
Unidentified
“I am a fool.
I understand the meaning of the word and still, I walk like a man blind for a man starved.
My humanity exists beneath my skin and pushes up every so often like a man insane.”
The dim light of a lantern casts half of him in shadow as he says this, a solemn look on his face that doesn’t reach his widely smiling lips.
“Why are you telling me this?” Moans the soldier, clutching his side and slowly stroking the growing red patch on his uniform.
“I thought,” he pauses for moment, looking up at nothing, as if trying to visualize his thoughts.
“I thought you’d want to know me.”
The soldier scoffs, it’s a watery sound that resounds in his trembling lips.
“I do not need to know the monster who takes my life.”
“Why not?” Says the killer. “We are the same, and I’d like to know my company.”
His face is bizarrely blank.
“Do you not know yourself?”
“I know myself,” the soldier says, curling to hide his wound, as if it’s the knowledge it’s there is what aches.
“No,” a beat, “you don’t.”
There is silence, or whatever silence can exist amongst the constant screams and echoes. A wordless pause in the endless noise.
“You never got the chance to.”
“And whose fault is that?” The soldier grits out. His trembling breath makes the light flicker, his killers face is swallowed by a darkness.
“You’re the one who’s killed me before I got the chance to live.”
“What wise words to die on,” says the killer, “better than screams of pain. Far more quotable.”
The soldier gives him a sort of bewildered stare, like he’s begging him to say nothing else and also something different.
He reaches his bloody, mud caked hand to rest on his killers knee. He squeezes once, it’s weak, but he pants like he wants to snap the bones beneath his hands. He lets go. Leaving behind his muddy hand print.
The killer lets his eyes meet the soldier’s,
“I’d like to know you too, you know.”
The soldier laughs a crazy, unhappy laugh.
“Do you ask this of everyone you kill?”
The light flickers again.
“My humanity,” he starts weakly, “leaks out of my gut.” He stretches out, baring the red stain on his uniform.
The killer shakes his head.
“I only see blood.”
“You’re mad!” He wails, sobbing through his bared teeth.
“No.”
The soldier pounds his fists into the dirt and spills his blood and tears onto the ground.
“A monster then.”
The killer says nothing at that.
“Nice to meet you.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
The soldier heaves his final breath, the flame hardly falters with it. He is limp, but there’s an expression of pain in his face. His eyes are open and wide.
“I am no monster.”
The killers closes the corpse’s eyes, making him seem almost at rest.
“You know that, right?”
He doesn’t even look at the corpse as he asks.
“Of course you do.”
He slowly emerges from the moment, crawling on all fours in the mud. The first of many, the last to die.
I understand the meaning of the word and still, I walk like a man blind for a man starved.
My humanity exists beneath my skin and pushes up every so often like a man insane.”
The dim light of a lantern casts half of him in shadow as he says this, a solemn look on his face that doesn’t reach his widely smiling lips.
“Why are you telling me this?” Moans the soldier, clutching his side and slowly stroking the growing red patch on his uniform.
“I thought,” he pauses for moment, looking up at nothing, as if trying to visualize his thoughts.
“I thought you’d want to know me.”
The soldier scoffs, it’s a watery sound that resounds in his trembling lips.
“I do not need to know the monster who takes my life.”
“Why not?” Says the killer. “We are the same, and I’d like to know my company.”
His face is bizarrely blank.
“Do you not know yourself?”
“I know myself,” the soldier says, curling to hide his wound, as if it’s the knowledge it’s there is what aches.
“No,” a beat, “you don’t.”
There is silence, or whatever silence can exist amongst the constant screams and echoes. A wordless pause in the endless noise.
“You never got the chance to.”
“And whose fault is that?” The soldier grits out. His trembling breath makes the light flicker, his killers face is swallowed by a darkness.
“You’re the one who’s killed me before I got the chance to live.”
“What wise words to die on,” says the killer, “better than screams of pain. Far more quotable.”
The soldier gives him a sort of bewildered stare, like he’s begging him to say nothing else and also something different.
He reaches his bloody, mud caked hand to rest on his killers knee. He squeezes once, it’s weak, but he pants like he wants to snap the bones beneath his hands. He lets go. Leaving behind his muddy hand print.
The killer lets his eyes meet the soldier’s,
“I’d like to know you too, you know.”
The soldier laughs a crazy, unhappy laugh.
“Do you ask this of everyone you kill?”
The light flickers again.
“My humanity,” he starts weakly, “leaks out of my gut.” He stretches out, baring the red stain on his uniform.
The killer shakes his head.
“I only see blood.”
“You’re mad!” He wails, sobbing through his bared teeth.
“No.”
The soldier pounds his fists into the dirt and spills his blood and tears onto the ground.
“A monster then.”
The killer says nothing at that.
“Nice to meet you.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
The soldier heaves his final breath, the flame hardly falters with it. He is limp, but there’s an expression of pain in his face. His eyes are open and wide.
“I am no monster.”
The killers closes the corpse’s eyes, making him seem almost at rest.
“You know that, right?”
He doesn’t even look at the corpse as he asks.
“Of course you do.”
He slowly emerges from the moment, crawling on all fours in the mud. The first of many, the last to die.
Published 6th Aug 2024
Author's Note
Just a small bit of fiction, dialogue heavy of course. I’ve been enamored by the idea of a killer vs a soldier. The only difference is, the killer is just the one who made it out alive. I kept their thoughts vague, it’s meant to be hollow and awkward. I don’t often write fiction, so this is quite new.
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