American Historical Fiction

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

Dear Mother and Father,

I wear a thorn crown, here, that is natural. The hobby of healing is thoughtful in reality, but here, we are fighting our stomachs the whole way. Healing is not looked down upon. The thorns digging into our scalps are harmless. In moderation, we find ourselves running into prophetic battles. Our white-like angels pure against rifles stained with that of the devil. The skies turned red with agony, boring our trials and errors. Thunder resembling the screams of the dead. Lightning crashing down to stop our everlasting terror. The terror generations are assumed to carry when we drop to the ground. Our thorns continue to grow bigger, becoming one with us. Tangling our hearts in sharp roots. Making them bleed, no longer able to know right from wrong. Our brains are no longer there, replaced by our empty, violent tendencies. Our crowns hold onto flowers, holding onto the last hopes and dreams we had. They give us a sense of security. We harbor them for as long as we can, but eventually, we have to let go.

It was cruel, how so many of them could be downed in such a short amount of time. I saw them swell, and I tried to ignore it.

But a thorny crown does not let you be unseen. Eyes fixated on you like you are a prized horse. Not the fastest, but pretty to look at.

I was running, not for my life, but for others. I've had quite a change of heart if you can believe it. Death is funny to me. I ran towards the fire instead of away.

I didn't run like how I ran from our family.

I know you’d be disappointed if you could see me now, but it’s not your interests I’m into. You should expect this, for tragedy burned in my eyes. Not hope or future, fire's tearing down houses and people. From the start, I never followed your rules. I never listened in school, I never paid any attention to the little things. Now I wish I could go back, and believe in my silly fantasies. But life, unfortunately, doesn't work this way. We wish to turn back time, instead of looking forth. Instead of facing our actions. Instead of walking down the path of life, considering that things aren't just play. These are my mistakes, engraved in my mind forever. That is until the day I finally succumb to the constant withering I'm being put through. Until I accept I'm not meant to make it out of this war, to see your faces. The faces I never deserved to cherish in the first place.

The smell of blood and rotting was disgusting, bodies crowded around each other like it was a saloon. A saloon filled with tragedy and souls reaped of their potential. They had no fair chance. The "saints" overpowered them easily. It’s not obvious, but I’m sure this will make headlines. Headlines that will reach you, and make tears spread into your tear ducts.

But to us, that news will be a relief to our side. We, the true survivors and stragglers. At least, that's what we like to believe. What we flatter ourselves with to feel better about doing satan's bidding.

They stood no chance against our blood-ridden soldiers. 

Although it’s been two days, I’ve already forgotten how tense the atmosphere was. It’s our average life, running into action no matter the threat.

In some way, we are the real heroes of the war. White stained with red, blank expressions held to ourselves. I don't want to believe I've been a first-hand witness to this violence; for I know Mother would never accept. It is like birds, the unattainable creatures of the sky. This war is unattainable. The river runs red with our mishaps. Our mistakes burn into our skin, scars of remembrance. We try to douse them in water, to ease the burning. But it doesn't work no more. We've cut the wounds to deep, sin burning in our veins. We bore the red coats to prove it. Blood soaked so deep it's our new fashion. Whoever evoked this new style, I wish them a bad time. We have our ways to make it more acceptable. Adorning them with golden buttons, ones made from bullet shells. That was the request of our general, though many disagree with a man so gruff. I am one of the many who feels aggravated by this man's rules and agreements. I read this over, feeling existential dread pooling over me. I miss home, wishing I never left.

Though I love you, Mother and Father, I cannot help but hold on to the hope. The hope that the devil will lead me to bliss. It's a stupid hope, one you'd disapprove of. To believe satan will grant me hope.

I disappoint you with every step I take, I am aware. It was not your footsteps that I followed. Your steps were always too big for me. Something more than I could ever be. That is why I am here, to prove to you I'm something of worth. If I don't come back; only I am to blame for such foolishness. We both know care was never my strong suit. The way I treated you-I'll never forgive, the way you've forgiven me. Blood bears my name in the sand, for I've been encased in a satanic hand. I regret past and current mistakes, mistakes that I can't take back. My wings are stained and stripped of their feathers. I've sinned Mother, Father. I'm glad you're not here to see me, now. I would hate to see the pained expressions you hold, me on my knees, watching me beg to god for forgiveness.

I do sincerely wish you well. Even if I never said it to your faces, and I'm still not. I'm not headstrong or steadfast, like brother. Please do tell him I wish him well, too. If a sword aligns itself with my neck, do not cry. I don't deserve your tears, nor does this world. May my loss or victory go down to my name.


The late Bailey Wales,

Daughter to Rodger and Giana Wales,

Sister to Tim Wales.

September 18, 2023 03:05

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