History Repeats itself | Teen Ink

History Repeats itself

February 13, 2012
By Staystrong13 PLATINUM, Royse City, Texas
Staystrong13 PLATINUM, Royse City, Texas
23 articles 27 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from." -T.S. Eliot

“Sell me your deepest darkest secrets and I may let you keep your soul. I am on the hunt for a soul, for I sold mine to the most horrid demon of hell, Satan himself. Either you hand over yours or I will steal it for my own use. There is nowhere to run, nowhere you can hide, nothing can save you now. So just give up before I tare you down and destroy your pitiful lifeless corpse, with glee,” the demon like monster sneers, standing over what is left of the pathetic soldier.
He was only a boy, a young lad of only 17. His mother will be delivered an American flag, told he fought valiantly and died a hero. He lies in the sand in the middle of nowhere as the enemy holds a gun to his head. He prays a silent prayer to a God who will not answer. The demon slithers closer and closer, ready to claim his prize but the enemy will not fire their guns just yet. No, they want to have fun with this American before they put the boy out of his misery. They rip him from the ground and throw him back down again. The young boy’s dog tags clank against his chest they read Spencer T. Malone II. He shouts for the first time in the seemingly endless line of torture as they strike his jaw, shattering into a thousand pieces. Blood spews from his lips while he collapses further into the grainy earth. He closes his eyes as his crimson blood seeps into the sand. He sees his short life flash before his eyes, images of his mother and pictures of the father he never got to meet fill his head. “Come back home to me, safely and as quick as you can,” his mother’s voice rings in his ears as she clutches the picture of his father in his uniform. His father, Private Spencer Malone, lost his life in 1966 after joining the military. Private Malone never knew he had a son, he never got that letter from his wife, it arrived an hour after he was shot down. Just like his father before him, Private Andrew Malone, Private Spencer Malone senior was gone within the blink of an eye. “Now I get to follow in my grandfather and father’s footsteps,” he thinks as another blow makes him see stars.
The enemy talks in their language and young Malone whispers another prayer as the demon hovers over his mauled body. Bits and pieces of the boy lay all around him; a chunk of his calf here, a shredded, mangled, arm there. Tufts of his hair cover the ground, “Just shoot me,” he thinks as his vision starts to blur. The enemy rolls the mutilated young man onto his back. He wants to shield his eyes from the sun but there is no hand left to shield them.
They laugh like mad men, proud of their deed, and spit onto his wounds. He has long since lost the energy to scream, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction if he had it. They hold a gun to his head then lower it to his stomach and pull the trigger. The distinct metallic taste of his blood fills his mouth and pools in his lungs. The thick crimson liquid begins to spill out from between his dried cracked lips and he begs to his god to end him now, to take away his pain. The demon laughs triumphantly as the boy slips away as the enemy soldiers are gunned down. “We’ve got him,” a man yells. “Hang in there Malone; hang in there,” the man says to the boy at his feet but Malone is long gone now.
The demon has ripped into his heart, scratching it out of his chest and stealing the soul that lies within. Once more the cycle is repeated; a young Malone goes into a war never to return home. Mrs. Malone must now bury what is left of her son, right next to her husband, with yet another folded flag.

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