Short Fiction - There Are No Winners in War

---

---

The blanket of night masks our approach into the city, aiding and abetting our war crimes. The bomber slips through the air, almost silent but for a low whine – the harbinger of death. I look down at the city, for all the good that it’ll do me. The absence of light allows my imagination to construct some sort of a reason, some sort of a justification that will allow me to return home to my family and sleep without waking and screaming and cursing. But it’s all for nothing. There are no winners in war. Only those that lose the least.

I flick open the red cap that protects the button that releases death itself onto the populace. I look down at the button, such a small and unassuming thing. It’s hard to believe the number of deaths attributed to this button, and ones just like it. The mechanisation of death. Like some sort of twisted thought experiment with no way out. My hand is shaking with the weight of my conscience, and I flick the cap back down. Not yet. I need to work up the courage to do this cowardly thing.

My mind drifts back to my homeland. To the endless lies and propaganda and instilled hatred. To a place where freedom is now a footnote in history and frightened obedience is what keeps the populace down and in its place.

It’s routinely thought that as bombers, we have the easiest job. We don’t run into enemy fire, or engage them directly on the field of battle or in the air. They’re right on that count.

What they don’t factor in is that we don’t fight against soldiers – we fight against civilians. People with names and faces and stories that we will never know. It is no fight.

It is a massacre.

I cannot even imagine the fear that consumes people when they hear that siren, that unearthly shriek screaming for them to run and hide. To pray that their lives are not taken this night.

I cannot even imagine the sorrow that consumes mothers when they find the cold, mangled body of their child in the blasted wreck of their home. Or worse, when the body is not even found.

I cannot even imagine the devastation that consumes families, ripped apart and impaled with the weight of death. The devastation for thousands of families.

All I see is a button. A button that is an abbreviation for thousands of deaths. A short punctuation mark in the transcript of hell.

The deadline approaches, as it always does. The sickness approaches, wrenching through the pit of my stomach and conquering my body. The sickness of murder, cold-blooded and violent and unforgivable.

What am I?

Not a man.

Not a soldier.

Not a civilian.

I lie in some cold purgatory of being. I deserve no redemption.

I stare at the button for one last time.

---

Hey there.
This piece is loosely based on World War 2, but has no basis in the real world. I just want to make sure it's clear - I'm not looking to insult any of the people that gave their lives in the fight against oppression, or even suggest anything of the sort. What I wanted to convey here was a bitter and world-weary tone for a character sick of killing.
If you liked what you read, consider checking back next Wednesday or Sunday for another piece of short fiction. If you didn't - let me know why! Any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated since I'm always looking to improve the quality of my writing. Until next time.

dex

---