The sniper grabbed the knife from his pocket and cut his brother out of his gear. He then grabbed the whiskey from his pocket, poured it on the wound to cleanse it, and cut off a piece of his sleeve to wrap around the wound in order to stop the bleeding, in denial that he was actually dead. It’s very rare that this particular sniper was ever phased by anything. He stepped back a bit, horrified by the gruesome visual he would never be able to remove from his mind, ingrained in his thoughts, for every day, every hour, every waking moment from dawn ‘til dusk, and into the depth of night for as long as the sniper lived. The boy never told a single soul what he had done on that fateful night. It was October 8th, 1922, the day the sniper lost
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“He was my brother.” “My God, it really is you, Henry Murphy.” The man pulls out an old wrinkled up black and white photo from his wallet, a picture of a teenaged sniper and his brother. “My father gave my mother this photo of his brother before he went off to fight in the war. It was his most prized possession. Today’s his birthday actually, he would’ve been 106. How close in age were the two of you, if you can remember.” “Your father was 10 years my senior,” the sniper was able to spit out. “He had a son?” He was on the verge of tears. Of all the memories he’d lost, he never forget anything about Ryan. “Two actually. My twin sister died at birth. When father left, it was just mother and I. It’s nice to finally meet my uncle. Mother brought me to America for a better life, worked day and night for me. Now I’ve got a wife and a couple of kids, they’re all grown up now though, the oldest one’s getting married next year. I worked for humanitarian aids, helping people around the world, retired now. My mother passed decades ago, but she always told me that my father loved you with all his heart, regardless of all the bad blood in the past. I’ve searched for many years to find you. I’m sure he’s looking up on us now with the big guy, smiling.” The sniper stood up, put his hand on the shoulder of the man, and reached out his other arm, half of which has been amputated due to an infection from the bullet wound back then. The man shook the sniper’s severed
“He was my brother.” “My God, it really is you, Henry Murphy.” The man pulls out an old wrinkled up black and white photo from his wallet, a picture of a teenaged sniper and his brother. “My father gave my mother this photo of his brother before he went off to fight in the war. It was his most prized possession. Today’s his birthday actually, he would’ve been 106. How close in age were the two of you, if you can remember.” “Your father was 10 years my senior,” the sniper was able to spit out. “He had a son?” He was on the verge of tears. Of all the memories he’d lost, he never forget anything about Ryan. “Two actually. My twin sister died at birth. When father left, it was just mother and I. It’s nice to finally meet my uncle. Mother brought me to America for a better life, worked day and night for me. Now I’ve got a wife and a couple of kids, they’re all grown up now though, the oldest one’s getting married next year. I worked for humanitarian aids, helping people around the world, retired now. My mother passed decades ago, but she always told me that my father loved you with all his heart, regardless of all the bad blood in the past. I’ve searched for many years to find you. I’m sure he’s looking up on us now with the big guy, smiling.” The sniper stood up, put his hand on the shoulder of the man, and reached out his other arm, half of which has been amputated due to an infection from the bullet wound back then. The man shook the sniper’s severed