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The Scent of War

mszrswrite
7
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Synopsis
A child is forced to grow up too soon, surviving the horrors that took everything from them.

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Chapter 1 - Running away...

Every person carries a scent.

It's a fragrance that sticks to the skin, an odor you can't quite wash away, even if you try. This smell is unique to each person, often unpleasant, sometimes pleasant, but always present. It lingers, whether you're awake or asleep.

And sometimes, that scent becomes more than just a passing presence.

It becomes unbearable, more than just an annoyance—it becomes something haunting. Something that stays with you long after the moment has passed.

The scent of war.

It doesn't just stick to clothes or the air around you. It gets inside your skin, deep into your bones. It fills your lungs, coats your tongue, and clings to every part of your being, until you become part of it. And when you're part of it, you can't get rid of it.

"Hey, you!" A commanding voice shattered my thoughts. It was strong, clear, sharp. A man stepped toward me, his boots thudding against the dirt.

He was a soldier—or perhaps a revolutionary. Honestly, I couldn't tell anymore. I had lost track of the words used for people like him. Or maybe, they were all just killers. 

His black boots were worn but sturdy, and the weapon hanging off his shoulder.

He wore a black helmet, his uniform tight against his frame, and a revolver was strapped to his side, he was surely a soldier of the Imperium.

"What are you?" He asked as he moved closer.

He slowly grabbed his revolver for his side but instead of pulling the trigger, he waited. Maybe he still had enough humanity in him to hear me out first.

What should I say? Should I lie or tell the truth?

Or should I be arrogant and say I'm a human?

Because we're all humans, aren't we? Humans who are shot in mass graves, humans who are hanged, humans who are tortured in front of their loved ones, humans who once lived in peace.

What should I say?

In that moment, death felt more like an escape—more like a release. It was the end of the suffering, the end of the never-ending cycle of pain.

But my mother always taught me to speak the truth.

"Harkon." I said, meeting his eyes.

I waited, holding my breath for his reaction, expecting a bullet to my head

But he didn't react the way I thought he would. 

Instead, he stepped closer, and I felt his grip on my arm. He pulled me up from the ground. 

"You're my blood." He replied as he extended his arm, grabbing my arm, pulling me up from the place where I should have died, because I lied.

I am nobody. Not Harkon, Ibbin, Pjersi, or Okkin. I'm just a child. A child who has nothing left.

Who knew if he was a revolutionary or a soldier? It didn't matter anymore. None of it did.

But one thing's for sure, he laughed while my father begged for our lives, but he didnt care and shot, then turned to my mother asking, "Are you afraid?"

But she wasn't afraid. She was never afraid.

She stabbed the man in the thigh with her hairpin twisting into his flesh. 

She kept stabbing, again and again. I couldn't understand how she could be so strong, so fierce. I couldn't understand how anyone could keep fighting in the face of such cruelty.

But then she got tired. She was exhausted, drenched in sweat and blood. Still, she didn't stop. She took the gun from his hand, coldly asking, "Are you afraid?"

And then she shot him and looked at me, with a gaze I will never forget.

"Run, darling, run!" She screamed at me.

She shoved me through the back door, out into the night. "Don't look back, just run!" she screamed again, and I obeyed. I ran into the dense forest behind our house and ran, as fast I could.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Three shots rang out.

But after that, there was nothing. Just an eerie silence. The kind of silence that tells you everything you need to know.

They were gone. They were dead. My parents, my town, my people. They were gone.

Some burned alive. Some shot where they stood. The old men who once smiled as they told tales of their youth—they were gone too.

Genocide or ethnic cleansing? Who knows anymore, but one thing's for sure—it was all because of the revolution.

A revolution started by the common people, those who lived in poverty.

So why did they kill those who suffered just like they did?

I didn't know.

I just kept running. I didn't look back.

Somehow, I survived. I ate what I could—bugs, plants, scraps of meat from dead animals. Anything to keep the hunger away. And the rainwater quenched my thirst, though it wasn't enough. It never is.

After that solider grabbed me he escorted me to a military truck, the sound of the engine rattled through my bones. The truck shook and bumped as it moved past the smoldering wreckage, the charred remains of homes and bodies, the abandoned shelters left in the wake of violence. The floor beneath my feet was slick with blood. It seemed that they tried to wipe it up. Maybe they were transporting wounded soldiers or—perhaps—dead bodies.

My thought was where are they taking me? To mass grave?

Or perhaps I'll be lucky and I'll be the one to dig the graves for others.. 

But none of them came to be the truth.

On the way, they picked up more people, mostly younger ones and middle-aged ones. I didn't care that much and slept through the whole ride.

And then, some hours later, we arrived.