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Musicians/Music Groups Fan Fiction >> Avenged Sevenfold

The following is a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

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Pistol To My Temple: To Hell And Back
By SteffiSevenfold

 

My blood pumped eagerly, my pulse pounding.
My finger restricted around the tirgger and a shot exploded from the barrel like a grenade.
The butt of my gun came back at me like a ricochette.
A broken scream filled the air and stuck out at me from the hundreds of other cracked screams.
I cocked my gun, positioned it on my knee, and fired. Another hateful blast.
People ran past, dirt and rubble kicking up behind their feet.
A mother dropped her baby on the dirty road.
The baby got stepped on by a rushing mob of people.
I should've went out there and helped the thin, small baby.
I didn't hear the faint voice of my name being called.
I just kept my eyes fixed on that small frame, wrapped tightly in an off white blanket, now soaked red.
I should've helped it.
Too late now, I thought bitterly.
Now it's dead.
"Jimmy, get your ass back to this fucking truck before I kill you myself!"
I looked up at a fairly short man, no more than twenty four. His blonde and black hair was covered by a dark green army hat and his face was dirty.
I've become great friends with him. His name's Johnny.
Though it's stupid of me, I stood up and looked back at the baby before jogging to the truck.
I piled in uncomfortably next to a tall man, shorter than me, with dimples and short hair. I've become close with him, too. His name's Matt.
"How you holdin' up, Matt?"
My voice was just a breeze with the explosions of gunfire, but I know he heard me.
His forearm was bleeding uncontrollably and a long streak of blood was smudged through the dirt and grime on his face.
Cuts and bruises lined his face and arms like another layer of skin.
"Not as bad as Baker over there," his voice rose louder than mine as he nodded to a guy with black hair. His helmet must've been blown away.
His black hair was short and he had a baby face and tattooed arms. I don't know him too well, but his name's Zack.
His leg bled horribly, darker red in some places than others. I'd bet a wound to the head that he was shot. His breathing was abnormal and his fingers covered in blood and grime.
Half of that blood on his hands was probably his. The other half probably wasn't.
I nodded and instinctivly ducked down at the sound of gun shots on metal.
The truck swerved but drove straight after a few seconds of uneasiness.
I heard the howling word of, "Fuck" strown out.
It came from Johnny's mouth.
Gun shots again. The distant sound of a falling body, yet close enough to make you shake and turn your head.
A man whom I've met breifly, but seemed cool enough, leans against the inside wall of the truck. He was looking after the pile of deceased. Now he's part of it.
His helmet lay on the ground somewhere behind us as our truck kicks up dirt.
His black hair lay around his face, his heavily tattooed arms down at his sides limply.
His chocolate eyes looked lifeless because, well, they were.
His name was Brian and he died nobley.
Zacky had tears springing to his eyes. Johnny sat emotionless, his gun held to his chest.
Matt looked dumbfoundedly at Zack.
I didn't know what to think.
Zack pulled himself to the back of the truck with strong forearms and pulled Brian's head into his lap.
Blood dripped from his lifeless mouth.
Zacks leg must be tourture, but he held Brian and let the truck keep rocking him.
I looked over at Matt and he mouthed the word brother to me.
And it finally made sense.
A sad, bleeding boy sat on his pained leg and held another man in his arms, crying into the mans filth stained hair because that's what brothers do.
It's in their blood to help their blood.
I felt for Zacky, but that's life.
Brian was dying every day. That bullet to the temple was enough to put him out of his misery.
He wouldn't have to go home when this hell was over and tell his mom what he saw.
He wouldn't have to close his eyes and see blood and death.
He wouldn't have the weight on his shoulders telling him that he killed and should be in jail.
He now has a luxery that none of these other men have.
The truck stopped and I instantly raised my gun, fear pounding through me.
I can't believe I've made it this far.
I looked around and here we are. Base.
People say that Home is a place to rest your head at night. A place to eat and talk.
But this isn't home. This is hell.
I'm living an actual hell.
---
You want an update?
Here it is.
I've been home for one year, two months and thirty-seven days.
When I close my eyes, I see darkness.
But it's not the darkness a child may see when it goes to rest.
It's not the darkness that a man sees when he falls asleep in his wife's arms.
The darkness I see is evil.
It's the dark souls, laying on the ground.
It's the dark eyes.
And I wonder if I ever will see light again.
It's been one year, two months and thirty-seven days and I still keep in touch with Matt.
I keep in touch with Johnny.
They're both lively and fun, though I'm sure they were twenty times and fun as they are now. They've punched Death in the face.
They said Get back you motherfucker, before I knock your ass the hell back!
They lived.
It's different for Zacky and Brian, though.
After Brian's death, Zacky was dull, heartless, not sure why he was where he was.
None of us were sure why we were fighting. What we were fighting for.
For the respect of our families and friends and nation? For the free shit that comes our way? To blow anything we want up?
Now that I think about it, I don't think there was a reason. It just sounded fun. It sounded like something that not everyone does, so why not go do it.
Now I see why it's not something that everyone does. Because no one lives past it.
Zack held his dear, dead brother in his arms for months.
Then when the guilt was enough, Zack put a pistol to his temple.
He pulled the trigger that he's pulled hundreds of times before.
This, he realized, would be the last time he pulled that trigger.
The last time he'd get such a rush, such a high.
The high was enough to kill him.
Maybe the high will be enough to kill me, too.



The thing about war is that it's something that will never stop.
It's like music in a sense. Music will live on forever, even when the musician passes by.
I may post another chapter in my An Endless Game but I donno. Work in an hour.
[:

steffiFUCKINGsevenfold.

 

The preceeding was a work of fiction. Any statements regarding any person, place, or other entity (real or imaginary) is the sole responibility of the author of this work of fiction. Fan Works Inc. takes no responsibility for the content of user submitted stories. All stories based on real people are works of fiction and do not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. All stories based on other copyrighted works are written with authors knowing that these works violate copyright laws.

Please see the Terms of Service for more information.

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