Another microfiction, submitted for your approval.
A tale of guilt, called:
The problem with the dead is that they can’t tell us how it felt.
Smoke, mortars, shells, bullets, blood. They mean nothing to him now. He’s gone.
Did it hurt? People assume that there must be a last burst of searing pain. But how can we be sure? What if his soul had been severed at the same time his frontal lobe was? Perhaps it was painless.
Perhaps his killer was less guilty. Could he move past this? Maybe forget that face? That blood soaked smear that was his head? One that had smiled, ate, kissed?
Not a chance. Not a chance in fucking hell.
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