I didn't want to fight. I didn’t want to kill.
Deep in my soul, I threw it not to cowardice, but to a sense of humanism. We are all fighting for death, I thought. And this is so stupid.
I wanted my body to smell like chocolate, not war. And moreover, not death. I wasn't a killer and wasn't going to become him.
Then I decided to run away. The weather that day was cloudy. It was drizzling a little, icy drops, like needles, pierced my skin. In my conscience.
But I chose the chocolate. I exchanged it for his brothers and friends. I wanted to save this tile, not the corpses of people close to me. Grabbing with me the musket that was handed to me, I rushed to the outskirts of the city. Beyond them lay endless fields. In the distance they were lead-colored. Like bullets. Just not so deadly. Drops continued to pierce my skin, I was shivering. My teeth were chattering, and I could not understand if it was from the cold or from fear.
I think I heard how, behind my back, somewhere behind me, in the city destroyed by airstrikes, my comrades shouted after me. They uttered heart-rending cries of despair.
But I decided not to turn around.
I don't want to fight for death.
