[ IP ] Soldier plays an abandoned piano

Glory! Revolution! Change! Brotherhood! The ideals that led us into this fight seems so grand at first. They were so big, so beautiful, so pristinely incorruptible. No one spared a single second in readying themselves to fight for this glorious cause. I rushed into it, as hot-blooded and ready as anyone. It seemed so enormous, and full of grandeur. 
 
 Was I ready to die? 
 
 I certainly said I was. Many times, I said'I will gladly die for this cause. I will give my life for this revolution.'' 
 
 I was immortal, no? It did n't matter if I was ready to die, I would live. I do n't think any of us gave any thought to real possibility of dying. We rushed in to battle, defending our glorious cause with just guns and bodies. Then we started dying. 
 
 First it was just the men on the edge of the regiment, men we barely knew. We were still immortal. 
 
 Then'we' became I. The regiment added new men, to replace the'heros' who died. And of course, they died, too.'Heros' all of them. But'heros' is n't much consolation to grieving families. As their friend, I wrote the letter. The `` He died a hero, he will be remembered'' letter. I was lying to them. To the mothers and grandmother and sons and daughters. The'hero's' would be forgotten, labelled traitors, probably, by the next regime. Or labelled'heros' again, long after their unceremonious funerals buried them in shallow unmarked graves. 
 
 The funerals were done quickly, because we only had a few days before marching off again. It was bitterly cold, and the ground was too hard to dig into far. They were buried face-up, no coffins and no prayers. 
 
 There were no honours. No music, no ceremony. It felt almost as though we were hiding the bodies, like we were party to the murder. And we were. We all were, anyone who held up these silly ideals of Glory and Revolution was party to the murder. 
 
 We had been marching for days when we found the piano. We stopped, frozen and exhausted. I walked up the piano. The keys barely moved, damaged and worn. But they did, and that was all that mattered. The sound filled the clearing, bringing back memories of happier times, far away from this hell. But for me, it was a chance to put one thing right. The Immortals would get a proper heros funeral, at least in memory. I played a funeral march. 
 
 I saw their faces, frozen in shock, lying in the dirt. The faces of boys, shocked to find they were n't playing a game. This was real, and it was over. The Immortals were dead. 
 
 
 I was the last Immortal. But the Immortals were dead. 
 

