Forever Guilty

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There was nothing but the sound of gunshots and explosions. The field which was once a lush green park was now a muddy pit of brass and bodies. A few trees remained but were splintered in multiple areas from the constant barrage of gunfire. The chaotic field was the perfect example of the destruction that war causes.
To the left and right of the large field lay two trenches, one on either side. They spanned a hundred yards in each direction. To the left was Fidel Castro and his army of rebels and revolutionaries. To the right was Batista’s military force. The fight was brutal, leaving the bodies of both forces sprawled upon the dead grass and mud.
I fought for Fidel Castro. Castro was the leader of our rebellion against Fulgencio Batista. Most of Cuba opposed Batista and his large oppression that has engulfed my home land. I was tired of being poor, tired of making hardly enough income to feed my family. Batista’s dictatorship was going to be abolished by Castro himself. I believe that Castro can win this next election, and pull Cuba out of it’s hole that Batista has so deeply dug.
I wasn’t very fond of fighting but when it comes to my country, I’ll do anything. For most of the battle I was under cover. I felt out of place in my attire, even though the rest of my allies were dressed in the same garb as myself. I was a six foot tall Honduran who was born here in Cuba. My buzzed black hair under my sombrero kept me cool in the heat of battle. My jet black mustache was untrimmed after three days of traveling by truck. My blouse was no longer white after mud, sweat and blood had stained almost every patch possible. My tan paints were identical to the shirt. This was the uniform color of our rebel battalion.

What racked my brain the most was the fact that I was fighting part of my family. My brother, Joseph, was fighting for Batista’s military. He was against Batista, like me, but he didn’t have a choice because of his enrollment. I could think of nothing else but my brother’s safety. I was so scared that one of my shots would hit him, so I seldom used my gun. The thought of his death haunted me minute by minute.
Your mind can be a big friend as well as a big enemy. If you think too much into things, you can go crazy. Every minute of every hour I was always thinking of my brother. My head was spinning, I couldn’t control my thoughts or emotions. At times I would cry, but mostly I just shivered. Then out of nowhere this feeling came over me. An urge to fight, to take back the country that was mine. The thoughts and concerns towards my brothers safety vanished, wiped off of my slate. I jolted up out of my hiding place within the trench and began to fire. Casings flew past my head as I let loose down range what seemed like a larger quantity of bullets than what had been fired by everyone throughout the entire battle. Magazine after magazine I reloaded time and time again. I was in an absolute rage.
Time was flying at that point. In what seemed like a matter of minutes, there was silence. The Batista military had retreated. Castro had led us to a great victory, and we celebrated. We danced about the trench in our bloody rags. We sang and pranced, shooting our rifles into the air. Victory had never felt so amazing. I felt more accomplished than ever before. Fidel Castro had helped us take a huge step towards our freedom with this victory.
I was so overjoyed that in the haze of my celebration, my brother was forgotten. I soon realized this and fear swept over me again. I decided to accompany a group of fellow rebels to scour the desolate battlefield for supplies, guns and ammunition in hopes that I may find no sign of my brother having a permanent stay here, in the mud. I searched the field left to right checking every corpse. There was no sign of him, my fear started to gradually release its deadly grasp over me. I came to the military’s trench, the area of the field that consisted of the most deaths. Every corpse checked became a relief. As I came to the end of the trench I was optimistic for my brother, considering that no body I found belonged to him.
I had not realized that my group had left me. The memory of leaving my gun behind quickly made me uneasy. I turned around to find myself at a gunpoint. I could not make out the complexion of the assailant. In a pathetic attempt to defend myself the gun fired and the lead struck my chest. As I slumped to the ground, grasping my chest I looked up to find the guilt struck eyes of Joseph.





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