Dressed To Die

Ground shakes. Bombs detonate. Fresh blood spurts squirt on the red earth. Screams rise up from the bowels and die sharp with the click of a trigger. Severed arms and heads lay on the naked ground blanched with a ghastly shade of white. A Russian soldier brushes his face on his sin-imbrued sleeve, and sits on a big basalt boulder. Behind the rock she hides, wrapping her torn maroon sweater around the little boy's shoulders, pressing her hand against his mouth. Her mother had died, her father and sister had disappeared. Hot tears roll down her flushed cheeks as she cowers her body, for what could she do but put her head down and pray for Batman to jump out of her pulp fiction and come save her country. Death is coming, of that she was sure, but that part of her mind still questions, “What have I done my Lord to die?”