Marathon

• Tinko Huston, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2020

It’s true that before you die your whole life flashes before your eyes, flickering, like a candle flame, and then gone, suddenly extinguished. For me it was my dad, hanging on a rope, his hair rustling in the wind, his eyes vacant, me as I enlisted, me fighting the Spartans and the boy. Always the boy, his face screwed up in pain, no more than 16. The boy, lying dead at my feet, my sword in his heart. The boy, haunting my nightmares, both waking and sleep, his silent, bloody face telling me its all my fault. And it is.

The battle of Marathon, perceived as a great victory for one, and a great loss for another. But war, it isn’t beautiful, your mind isn’t sustained with thoughts of your country. War is death, and nightmares, and ruined lives, grieving families and murder. There is no winner in war. Not now, not ever.

Two days ago, we ran towards them. The Spartans across from us, our phalanxes advancing slowly, my heart pumping in my chest. When we collided, it was chaos. And not the good kind either. People collided and sounds echoed around me. It was then it happened. It was then that I saw him. He had a bronze mask on, covering his face, and he was oddly small as he faced me. As we fought. It happened quickly. One stab and it was over. One stab and he was dead. It was only then that I reached down and took of his helmet. It was only then I saw his face. Young and fresh but lined with the scars of battle. Eyes vacant, not moving. I had killed him. It occurred to me then, as I kneeled on the battlefield in front of the boy, that I was no better than the tyrants who had hung my father all those years ago. Somehow, this thought broke me, like a piece of my very existence had flaked away, never to exist again. From then on, I was absent in mind, locked in an endless pit of blackness that churns inside of every man, waiting to swallow him up.

We fought again, and again, swords clashing, armour becoming bloodier as the dirt beneath our feet churned to mud. On the third day of fighting it happened. Today. A man ran towards me, a Spartan, his spear aiming for my chest. I blocked, swinging my shield to deflect the blow. Only to find his knife in my ribs, slicing towards my heart. Time stopped, and I saw my life, memories flashing over my eyes, quicker and quicker until they were undecipherable. The boy haunted them all.

As my heart slowed, my mind drifted around. I knew I was dying, almost dead. I deserved it. My death would bring a closure and a twisted sense of justice. Bringing closure for my family and revenge for an unforgivable crime. The blood pooled around me, and at last, at long last, my eyes closed.