Fallen.

                   The cries of wounded soldiers echo through the small chasm I am in, hidden away from the dangers of a godforsaken battlefield. It is dark, cold, and the air is thick with silence from fellow soldiers as we wait in the small chamber while our fellow comrades are shot, bleeding and wounded, fighting in a war that not even we understand. A single sash window on the other side of the wall is the only light source we have. Thick, iron rods were melted into the sides, preventing any escape if we so dared.

         Outside, I see the battlefield encompassed by darkness, the clouds thick and black as they give off an ominous aura. And as I try to think of things gone right, think about how I am fighting for my country as best as I can, this sullen environment keeps pulling me down under with its devil claws and evil grip. The rain pitter-patters softly through the glassless window, falling down into a small puddle on the ground inside. Bad weather here is a never ending destiny--a perfect setting for the final showdown.

         The  falling rain and the cries of wounded soldiers echoed outside, but within the chamber everything was still. Ever so often, the moon would emerge from behind the black clouds, casting its rays through the window and illuminating the small space, if only a little. I sit quietly against the rough wall near the window, my arms and legs sprawled outward on the ground as I feel the cold, hard concrete beneath my fingertips. With clothes too big, a helmet larger than my head, and a blank stare, I look like a comical rag doll.

         I shift slightly as I look out the window, placing the Bren gun under my arm as a rest and bring my knee up to my stomach, which has been so carelessly bandaged that I wouldn’t be surprised if an infection develops.

         There are three other people in the room. I never knew their names, only identifying them by the numbers on the side of their torn jackets. The moon shines its rays, and the dim light lets me see the faint outline of broken faces. One of the men--Number 66, I call him--notices me and clicks his tongue.

         “What are you lookin’ at…” he asks quietly. Clearly he was emotionally drained, like the rest of us were.

         “I was wondering,” I started, “why do wolves howl at the moon?”

         “Because they just do, idiot,” he replied.

         Silence kicks in again; the other two soldiers do not really say much, one talking ever so often and the other just plain taciturn all day. Sometimes I feel as though they have died from plain loneliness and boredom.

         ‘Dying to feel alive,’ I think to myself. “You know, dogs don’t howl at the moon. They just stay silent all the time, waiting for the day that they die, never bothering to wish for the freedom they deserve. We’re like that, you know. It‘s because of this war; it made us weak until our sanity just withers away. We like to be spoon-fed lies and encouragement like dogs. The government is just trying to cover up lies with the deaths of innocent soldiers, but you know, bones are brittle when used to build truths.”

         A faint sound of bombs exploding is heard in the distance, and just like the explosion, Number 66 suddenly blows up.

         “You think I’m some sort of pathetic sap, moron? We aren’t dogs. I’ll tell you who we are; we’re the living! We are the revolutionaries lookin’ for adventure, finding fun in the bullet-littered dirt and over barbwire fences. I’m not perfect, but neither is anyone else in this damn universe, and to everyone who’s back home, it’s their god-given right to stay alive, because I’m risking my sorry self for the wimps who stayed!”

         Suddenly, Number 66 wheezes harshly and covers his mouth with a calloused hand as he coughs. The fit stops, and he runs his hand through dirty hair and resumes talking.

         “Not this chamber, not this battlefield, not even this war can contain me now. And when I get out of here, you better believe that I’ll plow through a whole army of the enemy’s soldiers before I finally feel satisfied. We-” he nods his head towards the window, “are the uprising, the damned, godforsaken people, and we aren’t fading away.”

         All I can manage is a simple laugh. “That’s lovely; and while you keep thinking that, I’m going to continue living in reality. Just look outside. I don’t understand how you can’t see this battlefield little more than a joke.”

         And with that, it turns quiet again. A bomb explodes again, this time closer to us than before. The floor shakes a bit from the impact.

         I stare out the window, wondering what the outside feels like now. It’s been a while since I smelled the fresh air, walked on green grass… “What I’d do to go out again.”

         The spontaneous shaking gets worse and worse, and as I crawl closer to the window to peek outside, I see a grand tank driving towards our direction, with a squadron of enemy soldiers following close behind. A split second went by in stilled silence outside, and suddenly the wall behind me explodes, collapses, and falls apart into big chunks of concrete, hitting me against the side of my head and burying me in a few slabs. I try to dig myself out, clawing through rubble before I reach the light. My comrades are buried, too, and I see a small puddle of blood beneath the pile of concrete.

         The wall that kept us in was now wide open; it took me a few moments to register that. As the soft wind blew past me, I didn’t care to notice the amount of destruction this war inflicted. And as I limped out of the chamber and onto the muddied soil, all I could think about was freedom. However, it was all short-lived; I was noticed by the enemy and shot at. The bullet did not miss.

         I drag my dying body a few steps forward, staring straight ahead and clutching the wound on my stomach, now open once more. Finally, my legs give way and I collapse.

         And suddenly, I hear them as their whispers flow into my being, their voices caressing my inner spirit. The whispers are like curtains of golden shall, an almost invisible veil encompassing my heart and making me whole. I wait for the wind to pick up again so that it can carry the voices to me, and I feel content with waiting for them. Yes, I hear the fallen ones, and as I lie dying on the ground, I think of home. The blooming red stain across my chest is a grim reminder of reality; you cannot outrun your fate. I tried and failed. I would have always failed, because I defied the rules, I tried to break free from the chamber. But as soon as I did, the story ends, and as I breathe my last breath, I become one of the fallen.