War

WAR

I said no.


 "NO guns, guns are against me. Guns are for the weak. They are not merciful, they are for the dead. Bring me a sword."

I'm a alien, I fight here, for the good of the world. We have to fight the Reptile men. They are giant, soulless devils. They think of Hell, and murder. They have a mind, they can speak, but their souls are dead. They can learn. They learn and they call us, the human people; 

"Man-dead."

Just that. And so, it was a while after she had left. She had died. Death is cruel to me, I blame all kinds of thing for death. 

When she died, I went rage, an ever present rage. Not hate. I could see all the time that my own Rage is humorous. Transformations are humorous, mine was to transform into a giant pirate, big muscles, deep black beard, tall angry and mad. To do away with all death, an all-raged out ready man.

I choose a door called rage against the world, and so I had an opportunity to go, and then to arrive, and as the door was opened, I chose to appear in the place that was most in need of rage. A place fighting against death, or the place that needed the chance to win. And this world had to destroy the reptile. The men of evil. My rage was prepared to win. My rage was, that, a war full of chances to die with her, to fight for her, to cry out with rage, our love, to win something called her love, back. To become a hero. To take out my rage on the devil. 

I would wait to meet her until the war had finished and I could arrive home, with all these secrets, of how I raged and shook and bled on the battlefield, with only one thing to keep with me, the raging plans of a vengeance against Death. I would die in pain as much as possible and I would go to her home, at the end of the rage.

There were so much reptile, marching through the torn up earth, thunder and thunder above, and drowning lovers, my hollers reaching the lightening as we all screamed, and when I tore up enough scaly skin, and they fell apart, and covered me in black oil, blood, safe I toiled back to the bed at the top of the hill, so at that first, battle,  I gave in and said, "One small gun."

 And I went back into the hell, and shot many devils down, and I screamed at all the noise and the black fires in the sky, and I took my pocket knife, and I roared like man gone mad, and I pointed the end of the blade at my left eye and I ripped the blade across my eye and dug the eye out. Shaking, I tore away the last magazine of the gun against a mass of green muscle and went back again to my bed on the hill.

I lay in the bed, after some treatment, and before sleep, I assured her, her ghost swimming like white dove in the red canvas, that I was in no need of pity.

" No fear, love, I just poked my eye."