Imaginary Platoon

“You can’t die on me like this, soldier! You need to get up and protect your country!”

The weak and injured troop couldn’t do anything. All he could do was allow himself to be propped up by his platoon leader and watch his own blood flow out from his midsection.

He coughed a bit, but looked away to prevent any splatter on his leaders face, “It’s… It’s alright, Captain. You don’t have to treat me like it’s an action film. You can be straight with me.” He coughed again, this time ending with a sharp pain in his side, gritting his teeth and wincing from him wound. He slowly shook his head and closed his eyes, “I’m not coming back from the battlefield, right?”

“Hey. Hey!” The platoon leader tried to keep his troop’s eyes open by patting him on the cheeks, “Don’t you shut your eyes on me! You’re making it out of here with me and the rest of the squad!”

As soon as he finished his words of inspiration, something goes bouncing off of the top of his jungle camouflage colored helmet. However, after his years in the military, having dents and dings on his helmet on would just been a sign of his experience. Without a moment’s hesitation, the captain grabbed the nearest weapon around him, the dying troop’s standard issue assault rifle, and began blindly firing over the stack of sand bags protecting them.

“Captain…”

“Damn it, Samson, you’re not gonna die on me! I won’t let you, that’s an order! If you disobey an order, I won’t hesitate to call the higher-ups!”

As the captain continued to protect his troop a woman’s voice drowned out the rapid gunfire and echoed across the battlefield, “JONATHAN!”

As soon had the woman made her voice known, the bloody, corpse infested battlefield began to fade away, the captain melting in place, and his dying troop rising up into the night sky like a cloud of mist.

A few moments pass until the truth behind the battle revealed itself. The battlefield gave way to a bedroom, the walls decorated with various photos of men dressed in army and marine attire. The red stained, sandy battlefield was washed away, leaving behind a lightly stained white carpet flooring. As for the troop and captain, they reformed into mere plastic toy soldiers found by the dozens.

At the far end of the room, a beige wooden door flew open. Behind it stood a woman in her early forties, “Jonathan, did you finish your homework like I told you to?”

In the center of the room rested a young boy, no older than the age of ten, comfortably residing on a small stack of pillows. His hands occupied with toy soldiers in each, he quickly looked up at the woman by the door, “Yes, mom!”

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