The following is a flash fiction based on the prompt of a WWI soldier trapped in the enemy trenches.
The silence between each rifle blast contains some of the darkest moments in any war. Every second after the silence, I've seen my brother fall. The tanks have long since gone silent, and here in the middle of the night, there is only sporadic fighting. Mist and smoke cover what is visible of the battlefield. It doesn't matter, though, because no one would dare to lift their head above the trench's crest.
I've been in the enemy trenches for longer than I can remember. My hair is matted with some heinous mixture of blood, sweat, and mud. My clothes are soaked from the rain, and I'm crawling through the sludge on my stomach. In its current state, I believe my rifle would have difficulty firing.
Instead, I creep through the night, my knife at the ready. In a fight for survival, I dig its steel slowly and methodically through my enemies. I beg forgiveness for each family that I leave with one fewer member. I don't expect to find forgiveness, but I lie to myself in the hopes of preserving my sanity.
The deeper I fall into the trenches, the further I believe I have fallen from grace. I'm hoping to reconnect with old friends. In the depths of the enemy, there is no hope, only perseverance. If only it turns out to be enough.