The Fight Worth Fighting

February 1, 2010
I’m sitting in the dark on the rooftop of a raggedy abandoned house. My rifle lay beside me as I look up at the stars. It’s a foolish thing to do on a night like this, a night filled with buzzes of electrical current and screams of innocent people. The year is 2572, and this war was waged over three-hundred years ago. It all started when the country separated into two groups over our technological advances. The New-Thinkers thought everyone should convert from written literature to solely technology. On the opposing side are the Originals. Originals believe that everyone should stay with books and hold on to parts of the past. My name is Roxy, I am sixteen years old, and I am a member of the Originals. I fight for my rights, even though I am the only female in my squad.

A sudden buzz of electricity that goes crashing into the chimney breaks me out of my thought pattern. I glance toward the point of impact, a huge gaping hole, which can only mean the rifle that produced it was a newer model. The hole was perfect and aimed, someone must know I’m hiding here; I will have to move soon. Until then I will have to keep as still and as quiet as possible. I sit as still as an animal that is hiding from its poacher. Slowly I reach for my rifle. The help caller attached to my barrel shrieks out, breaking the silence and ruining my chance of escape. In response of the shrill call come twenty shots from all directions. I duck to the houses rooftop as low as possible, hoping not to get shot. Pieces of the houses roof fall upon my head, raining down like microscopic razor blades. The sharp, jagged edges tear at my skin causing diminutive cuts. I quickly take out my disease scanner and run it over the tiny incisions, to make sure they hadn’t used a bio-weapon. The test comes back negative and I release the breath I had been holding. I swiftly tend to my wounds, not paying much attention to if I’m executing it correctly. I have no time to waste.

After medicating and wrapping my wounds I slowly rise up to see if the coast is clear. As soon as I peek over the edge a shot rings out, and the electricity shot hits just four inches from my face. I gasp and jump back from the edge. With wide eyes I assess my situation. They obviously still knew I was here, and they had someone trained on my site at all times. One tiny movement would set off an opposing soldier and it would be over for me. I had to stay still. I had to stay quiet. I had to stay alive.

Twenty minutes into staying as still and quiet as a statue I started to lock up. My hands were refusing to bend, my knees were shrieking in pain from being bent so long. I needed dearly to stretch myself out. I stuck up my rifle, there was no return fire. The opposing soldier must be resting. I slowly stand to my aching feet. Tenderly I stretch out my arms and legs. Out of nowhere I feel a sharp pain in my lower back. I gingerly touch the spasm of pain with my hand. My shirt feels wet and sticky. I cautiously bring my hand around to my face; I can see the blood silhouetted in the dark. The soldier must have used a hover-silencer to cover the sound of his shot. I was losing blood fast and I knew I wouldn’t reach my health kit in time. I stumble forward against my will and tumble over the side of the house. I try to catch myself, but I’m just not strong enough.

Many things are racing through my mind as I tumble towards the ground. My mothers face, my friends I’ve left behind. But, most of all, I’m thinking of the happy times. Of the nights spent in my beloveds’ arms, my achievements, my family. The happy memories seem to make the pain subside, and the eminent death seem glorious. Glorious, because I know I fought for something worth fighting for. I feel a sudden impact, and half-hear a dull thud and sickening crack. Slowly I lose consciousness and everything goes black. Somewhere in the recesses of my sub-conscious, I know that I will never awaken from this long, silent slumber.

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