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His hand shook, slowly letting the dead body slip from his bloody fingertips as the realization kicked in. Using one knee, he picked himself up from the ground, stumbling as he stood, his uninjured arm reaching out and stabilizing him against the wall. His chest heaved with his heavy breaths, the pungent smell of the corpses nearly making it increasingly unbearable to catch his breath. He looked down at his left hand, the drying blood of his brother staining his skin. He could feel his mind drifting to another time, perhaps a time where they all could be at peace, though it was a doltish idea, the mind had such a habit of creating fleeting daydreams. Shaking himself out of it, he knew he mustn't linger here longer, lest he wander deeper into his thoughts.
He languidly walked toward the Liffey, the rank stench almost knocking him out. As terrible as it was, he pondered on the times he had spent as a child with his Mam. Those days were long gone, the corpses surrounding him bringing him back to his current state. He had to be careful, as the turret was near. As he moved closer, he noticed the head he had shot at, was no longer dangling from the turret wall. He figured someone must still be inside. He needed to find a way to move furtively to prevent being caught. Hidden by the night, he dived into the leaden water of the Liffey. Moving quickly, he approached the riparian land. The traces of murky water clung to his torn uniform, soaking him to the bone.
He searched the area for any potential enemies, but he spotted none. He saw an old Republican truck and advanced towards it. He crawled into the back of the truck, large bullet holes all along the tarp covering its back. Old scraps of food lay near the cargo bed, and crimson blood stains on the wood planks from past comrades tending to their wounds. He searched near him, a few small wooden boxes scattered and covered with torn canvas thrown lazily over them. He removed the covering and gently opened a box with his knife. He dug around and found a .303 British service cartridge, but no rifle. Slowly, he shifted the boxes and located one, a Lee Enfield Rifle Mark III. The forestock had stains of dried blood, and it was full of scuffs and scratches. He decided the rifle was in a well enough condition to use, and loaded it with the ammo he found. He remembered the first time he ever felt the trigger; It seemed so unfamiliar and cold then. Now, it felt different, it was second nature to him. Still halfway meddled with his thoughts, he made his way towards the front and watched the quiet street through a small flap in the tarp that covered the back portion. The night was still, a faraway street lamp barely flickering. Suddenly he saw the armored car, screeching to a halt. He could hear the chatter between the driver and his companion.
Sensing their eyes pick up on him, his instincts kicked in, immediately ducking for cover with his back against the truck. He nearly missed the bullets shot at him, his heart pounding in his chest, having already had multiple near-death experiences in this night alone. With a shaky breath, he turned over, his right forearm emitting a terrible ache through his nerves. He grabbed his newly-found rifle, with the aim to lift it before it fell right back down into his lap. He cursed his limp arm, having to hoist up the rifle with the help of his knee. He slipped the barrel of his gun under the tarp, the muzzle barely sticking out. He saw them get back in, turning the engine over. He shot the first man in the upper chest, near the nape of his neck. His hand clutched the bullet wound before his head eventually rolled to the side of the seat’s headrest. The second man did the same soon after, a bullet to his head while his gun fell from his hands with a clatter.
The sniper chuckled, slinging the gun over his uninjured shoulder. As he neared the truck, he busted the window with the stock of the rifle. He reached over the window and turned the handle to open the door. The man furthest from him had a wound on the left side of his head. A river of scarlet flowed down his shoulder, the moon shining in his blank eyes, now lifeless. The man closest to him had a bullet wound on his lower neck. Tiny jagged shards of glass rested on his closed eyes, breathing heavy and slow. He carefully removed the pieces of glass on his face. He gently touched the man’s forehead, pushing back his hair, a tear slipping down both their cheeks. The sniper didn’t feel remorse, just the man’s pain. He muttered a few words in his ear, making the man’s bleeding lip curl. The sniper stepped back and slowly shut the door. He carefully walked over the glass and past the old truck. Unexpectedly, he saw an eerie dark figure holding an oil lamp in the distance, a rifle on their back. He stepped on the sidewalk, and hurriedly walked to an abandoned building, looking for cover. The adrenaline pumped through his body, and he let it take control, indulging in its presence. With his free arm, he took a long steel pipe and pulled it through the door’s handles to secure it. He steadily made it up the creaky stairs, his wounded arm hanging at his side. Eventually, he came up to the fifth floor, where dust and mold reigned high. The sniper felt the sting of his wound but was too drained to do anything about it. He lazily reapplied the iodine and gauze, not caring too much about how tidy it ended up. Canvas tarps made their way under his head, but he didn’t bother with too much, he felt as if he could rest wherever from sheer exhaustion.
Dreaming, he set his mind loose, thinking of pleasant times from when things were simpler. The seemingly endless fields of barley, Da’s callouses from working with the cows all day, and Ma’s sweet cooking. Sometimes he wished it would come back, but times have changed now.
The strong feel of adrenaline wears off as he begins to wake, his eyes not wanting to part as he feels the cold ground against the palm of his hand. In a daze he stands up, stumbling towards the wall as he feels the pain start to seep in, his arm throbbing as blood starts oozing out the wound. Sleep still in his eyes, he grabs his belongings. He stares at the wall in a daze for a few moments, mesmerized by the brick pattern repeating itself. With his groggy eyes, he barely notices a small ladder leading to the roof-access with the help of the dim light of the early morning, the sun not yet peeking out of the horizon.
Perhaps, in a moment of a lapse in judgment, he wandered up to the rooftop, pushing open the roof-access doors, taking in the pink ombre of the early sky. He hadn’t noticed the breath he breathed, a calm sigh he hadn’t allowed himself for God knows how long. A new feeling enveloped him, one that he thought he had left long ago, in a little town in the countryside, a sense of contentment with himself. He walked towards the edge, squinting his eyes slightly as the soft glow of the rising sun refreshed his tired body, even if it was just because he thought it did. He blinked, once or twice again, entranced by the tranquility he seemed to have been beguiled with by the sky. For once, it was peaceful in a time of war. For once, he could let himself relax, embracing his humanity in a war where it was all stripped away, every soldier with a story made into a pawn.
Mere moments were spent in this bliss until he heard a whizz from behind him, and before he could act, shot him right in the head. For a brief second, he swore he could see his blood and his brains burst out of his forehead, his eyes widened with panic as his body falls forward, to the ground. His limp body hit against the ground, his bones breaking with the impact and rendering him dead to the enemy completely. His conscious faded in and out, his body no longer responding to him and his attempts to, at the very least, move an arm. He felt his eyelids shut, and with his mind slipping away, he breathed his final words with the last of what energy he could muster up.
“Brother, perhaps, in another life, we could’ve died side by side instead of across this river. But now, is deartháireacha arm… go deo sinn.”