Rose Colored Glasses

TW!!! This story talks about death, war, cannibalism, and murder!

The cold breeze awakens me, there’s a metallic taste in my mouth. I slowly push my body upwards as a sharp pain echoes from my side. My memory is foggy, but I think I can piece together what happened. I can see red in the distance. It would look like a beautiful field of roses if it weren’t for the bodies across the plain. Cadavers stacked on top of each other, limbs scattered miles away from their torsos. I assume some kind of bomb went off. I reach my feet in a staggering victory and stumble through the field searching for any sign of life. There’s nothing but future headstones in front of me. I wonder if some sick fuck left them all here to rot or if no one made it out at all. No one but me. Shit. How do I get home if I’m the only one left, where even is home? I can feel some liquid trickling down the back of my neck, and I make a point not to check what it is.

I look up to the sky, the sun is setting, and I have nowhere to go. Scavengers will soon come to feast on this buffet made for them, I may as well lay in wait and allow them to take me as well. There’s no chance of making it home, I may as well be useful to something right? Or perhaps I should give myself more credit than that. If I’m the only one still alive then I must have done something to deserve another shot, right? Or is it always the villains that come out alive? No. There’s no such thing as heroes and villains; this is not a fairytale, and I am no monster. No. I’m a survivor. I am the one that will make it home. The one to tell the tale, but I don’t remember the tale. Maybe it will come back to me.

I move forward in search of water or food and my desperation leads me to a camp with no one left to live in it. I look for anything to keep me alive, but everything has been taken by now-fallen soldiers and wildlife. My desperation leads me back to the gruesome scene where I dance around cadavers and try to make peace with death. I feast with the scavengers and try to force myself to feel remorse. One man has a canteen on him, I take it for myself and thank him for his sacrifice. I begin to walk and walk and walk until I reach a town. The town is empty too. Ransacked by hungry soldiers, the townspeople lay dead, and I wonder if I was a part of this or simply a bystander. Not that it matters now.

There’s plenty of food for me left over and I break into a house to fill my canteen. I search the house and two rooms. The first has a small bed meant for a child and there are blood stains on the wall. I choose not to look further. The second was for a couple who lay huddled in the corner, the man had his arms around his wife. The smell is worse than the sight. I get into their once-shared bed and turn away from the couple. I sleep until morning.

I wake up to the sound of birds singing, the slam of the door scares away a vulture that was chewing on a man. I step over at least 2 dozen bodies as I leave. There’s miles of forest and I can’t tell if I’m going in the right direction. I imagine I’ll walk until I return to the roses. I laugh as I skip on like a giddy child. I sound like a psychopath, and I wish I had a way to prove that I’m not. But I don’t. Maybe I was a serial killer once. I wouldn’t mind that. Honestly, I think I’d prefer it. I think most people prefer being predators to being prey. It’s an instinct I suppose.

The sun is beating down on me as I stagger through what feels like an endless forest. I wonder if anyone is looking for me, I wonder if I have anyone back home to care. I reach into my pocket and discover a dog tag. It reads “Simon Jameson” my name? Maybe. I keep walking. Eventually, I have to find someone with a computer. Someone who can help me. I stumble out of the woods and into a city. How long have I been walking? This feels like a dream. Or a nightmare. People are looking at me strangely. My clothes are torn, and my face is covered in blood, not my own. I can’t blame them for staring but it still makes me want to scream. Help me. Help me. Please. They all watch as I stumble and laugh at my failure. They’d probably step right over me if I was dying on the street. It’s unfair.

I walk up to the door of a random home; I feel drawn to it but I’m not sure why. I knock until someone answers. They open the door, and their smile drops at the sight of me. Like my existence has just ruined their day. “Simon?” they say as if I’m supposed to know their name. I push past them “Computer.” is the only word I can muster; this is when I realize my vocal cords have been damaged. Probably from some explosion or maybe just the pain of screaming. The person from before sets a laptop in front of me, giving me a look of fear and pity. I ignore it and begin typing eagerly, searching for my name. A desperate attempt for an explanation. I find articles about my heroism and more about my death. Pictures of a body bag, I see my own blank face staring back at me. “Is that supposed to be me?” I ask. They sit next to me slowly with a grim look on their face. They don’t need to answer. “Of course… how could I forget?”