Stained

     The night is cold, and wet, yet the wind gives rest to its powers. Only lightning illuminates the darkness that surrounds me, and I lay in the middle of it. The rain falls upon my brow, and trickles down my face, to plummet to the drenched earth below me. As I lay on the cool stones that pattern the street horizontally, I grasp my wrist. My palm is now almost completely stained, the fresh wound reminds me of the flag I once gallantly would wave above my head with all my might. Ol’ courage is what we called her, every time she would come out the lads would gain the impossible strength to press on. We were so young, we hardly knew what courage even meant.
     The night is clear of any blemish, like a fair woman who has covered her beauty marks for the time being. The stars are dangling from ductile material tonight, twinkling with each wisp of air. By the looks of the amount of light chasing about, it appears to be all of them, and all dressed in their own colors. The stream of star lights that are strung about, look to be engulfing the trees by the thousands of constellations. Though, my eyes are busy pondering the yard around me, I can not help but notice smoke whispering about the air, mimicking the familiar shadows of a graveyard. My ears pick up the harmonizing sounds of brass and strings together, with a low voice complementing the melody, telling their tale of happy times. Though, I hear more than that, I hear the truth behind the poets song, emotion, and rhythm. They sing the hopes of joyfulness, a mask in place, so not a soul dare comment a concern otherwise. The alcohol sits, savoring on everyone's breath, as well it lingers perfuming clothes, and the air. All the while, it all comes together, dancing to the swing of the song with Deaths breath.
     Rusty Spirit 1900 is sewn into the arm of my uniform jacket, that had now lay on the nearby chair of the lawn tables next to the beer garden. We visit the Mansion House quite often it seems, after training, or a battle. The boys come and they try to grab yet another spirit with the Old Admiral. War seems like an eternity in itself without a swig of booze; it is the only thing that allows me to sleep at times. I am constantly alone in my world, taunted by the tormenting memories and pain of watching my best friends burst faster than a supernova. I suppose that is all they are now any way, stars in the sky. 
     My heaviest burden I carry across my shoulders, is the death of my better half; this has ended me entirely. He suffered a slow death; he pulled me close as a bullet left its owner’s chamber, and kissed me softly as it entered his body. A plague to some, and gift to others; death spread through his body quickly. Now, I must live with this suffocating pain and knowing I will not meet him again.
     Ares Russell Parker, is my identity, though I say Rusty is my name. I would take great pride in who I used to be at the time; I would smite anyone who’d hinder my way. I was strong, I could do anything, I was pleased, and embraced my power. I have given many gratuities to the ferry captain, and fed the flames of a world beneath me. There was a mist that whispered and followed me as I traveled, country to country, city to city, village to village, down to the person, and I caused it. I take large pieces of machinery into my hands and pop off like a drug addict. I am fueled by the screams I hear in the wind scrape past my brassy fist, as I demand for the answers I want. I would pound, beat, and fire at those who were in any way associated against me.
     Fires…
     Bombs bursting…
     Shots given…
     Grenades popping… 
     O, how the sounds echo...
     I always hear those screams of those who’ve been whisked away by Death, shadows of those fallen prance around the “living”. They almost tease me, showing me what I long for: retiring the monster I've become.
Everything seems like yesterday…
There is an eternal ringing that keeps its continued holiday, pounding at the drum of my ear as if trying to get me back into march. I can feel the rhythm pulsating through the core of me, traveling outwards, to dance in my temporal lobe. Perhaps my body does not understand, given the breeze of my never ending breath, that I’m tired. So many wars I am fighting, so many lives I have been taking, continuously going but never changing, so many of my friends and family lost, and  must live through all of it, never dying, my body never weakening. The sorry attempt I made to take my own life won't even give me a fraction of the satisfaction of relief Death could gift me. I am my own burden. This will never cease to be true; my immortality  plagues me, and my death is the gift.