Putrid Hatred

Step after step. Stumble after stumble. Breath after breath. I walk, I trundle, I stumble and stroll. I falter down the jagged path, shuffling over the ragged stones. My feet are aching with pain, my soles coated with blisters and holes, each varying in size. Each trickling with blood. Each trickling with puss. I feel as though my body is crumbling, the essence of my very being is shaking and breaking down. It's almost like my body is a metal in a sea of acid, dissolving until I can no longer stand. Until atoms remain.

My legs give out and I slip face first into the mud and stones, I let out a groan, but my throat is so dry it hurts, my mouth is so dry it burns. Everything I do results in pain, agony and grief. What is the point of this? Convulsing continuously, I attempt to get up, only to be met with failure once more. Fall after fall. I always drop down to my knees. But finally. I stand up once more.

The town around me is disheveled, foundations of houses remain just barely in place. Covered in the ash of burnt belongings. Coated in the dust of families that once were.

A few houses still stand, but if I glance at them at the wrong angle, they will collapse on the spot, harming me in the process. Skeletons are something I have never come by in my time in this war, they've all mostly turned to dust, but the few that remain. They live on. Their bones crack with every step, their cartilage clunk with every movement and I swear. I swear I see life behind those empty sockets. Though they are only functioning because of fungi, I swear they have a conscience, do they have a moral compass? Do they have a sense of justice? Do they have emotions?

This land gives more questions than answers. With every answer brings a question. With every question there's a chance of no answer. It's a cycle of questions and answers and answers and questions that lead nowhere. They all lead down the same path. Death. Satisfaction comes with every answer, but disappointment is created with every question. Moving forward, my legs are numb with pain, my body won't stop aching and my eyes burn. How much blood have I lost? How long am I away from the sweet release of death? How much longer must I suffer?

I've come across a road, it's cluttered with the inner frames of cars and the dust of happy families that were oblivious to the catastrophe that awaited them. Rubble and debris fills the road and covers it in a thick haze of brown and grey. Roaming on this bedraggled street, my feet keep getting seized up by various entanglements of rebar, with chunks of concrete still affixed to these protrusions of metal. Outside of every town I'm reminded by how barren, empty and desolate our home is. It fills me with hatred.

The arrogance. The bravery. The selfish needs of everyone morphs our world as if putty in the hands of a child. The hubris of countries. The pride of nations that want to remain at the peak of the mountain. The peak of power. They are all the same, desecrating our home like going for a stroll on a Sunday morning. They all deserve nothing more than to suffer as we have. They sit in their bunkers, waiting for nature to reclaim its territory, only to attain the realization that it will never happen. They shall wait for the serenity of nature only to be met with the harsh and cold environment that they moulded.

They will reach the feeling that I call, Putrid Hatred.