Ivanov

You are Major General Alexander Petrov. You have twenty years of service behind you, countless battles, and tons of spilled blood. But even you, battle-hardened, sometimes fail to understand what drives young men into the very thick of things.

Like this boy, for example. He's nineteen, and he stands before you, his eyes shining and his silly bravado.

"Why are you here, soldier?" you ask, looking at his young face. "I wish I could live."

"Sir," he puffs out his chest, "I'm nineteen. I decide for myself. And I want to be a hero to my mother."

"A hero, then," you grin. "And have you thought about how your mother would feel if something happened to you? Would she be delighted by your heroism or would she tear her hair out in grief?"

He's silent. You see, your words have hurt him. These idealists need to be brought down to earth.

"Nineteen, you say," you sigh. "You're a hero for your age, even coming here. But I'm forty, and you know what? I don't want to be a hero. I want to be the kind of person who doesn't have to kill. I just want this war to end."

Six months. The war has scorched the earth, claimed thousands of lives, turned young men into old men. You wander the field, searching for him. You click his name, hoping for a response.

"Ivanov! Ivanov, where are you?!"

And then you see him. Lying on the ground, bloody, lifeless. You run up and pick him up. Light as a feather.

"Ivanov! What happened? Who did this? Hold on, soldier! Don't you dare die!"

He opens his eyes, looking at you through the pain. There's a childish fear in his gaze.

"Sir... I... want to go to my mother," he whispers. "... to my mother..."

You hug him like a son. Powerlessness overwhelms you. You can't do anything.

His eyes slowly close. His last breath. His last word.

"To mom…"

And he leaves. Leaving you alone, in the middle of hell, with a dead boy in your arms, and a sense of guilt that will never leave you. Forty years… And you still haven't learned to see death.