Dear Journal,
I am ripe with grief and disdain in both body and mind. My fate and loyalties were decided for me at infancy, while I was never given a choice. My only true vow is to be to my country, they said. It will be the first death of many, they said. But, I am haunted. I am haunted by the red painted plains and the ashes that fall from the sky as a graceful as the winter's first snow. I am haunted by the scent of the rusted iron infused with the charred remains of my fallen comrades.
Am I to become this monster? Or, is it just my duty that I am just to cowardice to take? Sword in one hand and shield in the other. The bodies stack; lifeless and wide eyed. My blood curdles. It's hot. I'm dizzy. Why am I so dizzy?
The eyes; all of the eyes stare back at me. But, this is their fate. Their fate for disobedience. They were warned! Yet, I am haunted by the whisper of the Crown, "So were you..."
Sincerely,
The Haunted
