Far From Home - Five Finger Death Punch

"Far From Home."

Based off of: "Far From Home" by Five Finger Death Punch

By: Me


I stand now in the midst of the aftermath. Tears that had previously burned my face are now dry and stiff against my cheeks. It's just another day in this carnival of souls as the sun sets in the distant horizon outstretched over the broken and battered battlefield where the night settles in as quickly as it goes. The snow-coated ground was scarred with blackened pits where bombs had gone off. The trenches were crumbled and broken, littered with mass casualties and shrapnel. Everything is stained red with the blood of the fallen, and my uniform is no acceptation.

I sit in the middle of the now barren battlefield in the memories of shadows, the air silent and still as if the world itself was holding it's breath. Your letter- Your final words- Are crinkled in my pocket as ink on the page. I still cradle your head in my hands, my palms warm, wet, and sticky with your blood. I can't look at you. I can't see your wide, empty eyes, and I can't seem to find my way home.

I move your head into my lap and set it down gingerly, slipping my calloused fingers from underneath your skull. They're stained with a sickening shade of crimson that makes bile churn inside of my stomach. My fingers run shakily through my hair as I let out a shaky exhale, and choke on a sob. I can't look at you.

I remember your cheeky grin. I remember your mischievous smirk. I remember your stupid laugh. I remember our nights spent just the two of us inside of that bar in Berlin. I remember that spark in your scarlet eyes whenever you'd get excited about something.

That all ceased when this stupid fucking war began.

I glance down to the gun still clutched in your hands, and move carefully to pry it from your fingers, taking it into my own hands and examining it. You have clung to this gun for the last six years, and now you've left it for me as a generous present. These last six years are reflecting into the silver casing, scarred and scratched to where your own reflection is almost too distorted to decipher. Just like you.

I remember how you deteriorated in these six years. How your grins ceased. Your smirks dissipated. Your stupid laugh disappeared. Our nights in Berlin became just a memory. That spark in your eye became dull and broken, just like you.

You wouldn't talk to me, ever, and it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to keep me out.

I look back to your gun and pull back the slide and draw the hammer back, and I remember all the places I've been and things I've seen. It's hard to remember a time without you, because there was never a time without you. There's a million stories that make up a million shattered dreams. But they've never weighed me down. I remember all the faces of people I'll never see again, and my heart hurts for them. They will all miss us, won't they, brother?

The thought causes a small smirk to become etched across my face and I laugh slightly to myself, but even doing that hurts. My laugh is dry and hollow, my mind feels numb, and I can't seem to find my way home.

Finally, my blue eyes build up the courage to look at you as I hold the pistol in my hand, pressing the cool metal to my temple. A faint smile etches across my lips and my free hand moves to close your eyes for the last time. Fresh tears feel cold as they fall down my cheeks and blur my vision, so I blink them away as my final words pass my lips:

"Auf wiedersehen."

I pull back on the trigger and everything ends.

It's over.

And it's almost like your heaven's trying everything to break me down.