All I ever wanted was a farm. Unfortunately, I no longer see how that’s possible given the fact that I have a bayonet lodged inside my gut. Brushing my teeth this morning, I didn’t really want to believe it’d be me today. As the cold steel enters my intestines, I find humor in the fact that you never really think something bad will happen to you until it does.

I can’t even see the guy’s eyes who’s stabbing me. The brim of his hat conceals the upper part of his bearded, grime-covered face. He’s grimacing and I am led to believe he isn’t taking joy in ending my life. It’s as though both of us would rather be somewhere else. At least we have that in common.

I realize I am still holding my rifle. I also realize it’s still loaded. Ironically, I was saving the shot for a time I’d really need it. I kind of got caught off-guard with this guy and didn’t have a chance to use it.

With the wound to my gut, I realize there’s no hope for me. I’m going to die. I consider bringing up my rifle, cocking it and trying to kill the bastard who stabbed me. But for some reason, I don’t. As I stare at the man who has gutted me, I recognize that just because I die doesn’t mean he has to. In the last moments of life, I discover something good about myself: I am not vindictive.

I drop my gun. On purpose.

I take a moment, before he removes his blade, to observe my killer’s expression. There is a kind of pain drenched over his face. Deep down, I want to believe he’s thinking, “I’m sorry, brother. Sorry I had to take your dreams. Sorry I had to stick you like this.”

The blade slides out of me and, to my surprise, it hurts worse coming out than coming in. I must confess, it isn’t the most pleasurable experience of my life.

My feet cave and I find that I’m falling. I land, surprisingly softly onto something warm, wet and boney. After I land, I experience a profound sense of disappointment. As the pain shoots through my stomach like a serpent, I look to heaven to God’s angels. To my sadness, there are none. There is only a cloud-speckled summer sky that reminds me of home. I grimace when I realize I’ll never see it again.

My view suddenly becomes blocked. A scrawny blue coat jumps over me and charges the rebel. As his boots flick mud into my face I hear him scream, “You’ll pay for that!”

I blink twice when I realize he’s black.

As he charges my killer on my behalf, I experience a profound sense of guilt. My entire life, I resented blacks. My entire life, I considered them less. Now here was one fighting for people like me, who have been cruel and spiteful. Here was one fighting alongside me as my brother.

A newfound anxiety breaches my veins when I realize the rebel is twice his size. I immediately feel like the worst person on earth for not my shot earlier. I look to my gun. It’s a few feet away near a puddle of dirty blood and I can’t make out if the cartridge got wet.

As my killer and comrade fight to protect whatever futures they may have, I start to crawl off the dead teenager I fell upon. I reach towards my rifle with one free hand while my other holds in my warm entrails. When I first start to move, pain shoots through me like a bunch of firecrackers. I curse as pain radiates through my sliced stomach as I push myself along with my legs.

When I finally reach the flint-lock, I feel relief at the fact she didn’t fall into the muck. For if it had, it may not have fired. I clasp my claw around her neck to lift her up. She is surprisingly heavier.

I try to cock her with one hand, but I find that I can’t. I take a deep breath and remove my other hand from the wound. As my entrails slide into the dirt, I nearly wail. I grit my teeth, then use my wrist to pull the lever back as I’m afraid my bloody palm will wet the pan.

I look back to my buddy. He’s on the defensive, shouting and screaming like a wild animal. As the rebel pushes him back because of his size advantage, the desperation in my veins to shoot the southerner reaches an all-time high; the final thing I want to remember from this world is saving my buddy’s life, not being responsible for his death by allowing the enemy to live.

My bloody, trembling hands lift up the rifle and I ready her for the moment. My eyes are darkening, and it is becoming noticeably harder to keep my weapon upright.

“Get out of the way!” I want to shout, but all that comes out is a coppery tasting groan. It takes every ounce of will I have to keep the flint-lock fixed on the scuffle. If there is one thing I was going to do right in my life, it was to kill this bastard southerner.

I nearly laugh in relief when I see the yank drive his bayonet into the reb. The rebel, now realizing what he did to me feel like, falls over soon after the yank removes his steel. He drops, knees first, shortly followed by his face.

After defeating our adversary, the blue-colored fighter shouts out a word. It is only one, but within it there is enough conviction and meaning for me to realize how a man, half the size of his opponent could win a duel. As soon as the word leaves his lips, I realize why he has fought for a country that enslaved him, spat on him and cursed him. I realize, he is no lesser than me.

I watch, with tears in my eyes, as my Yankee brother disappears into the smoke of battle, yelling his war cry in the name of the Union.

I question why I’m still forcing myself to stay awake when I have this great urge to sleep. I soon realize, the reason I want to not die yet isn’t based on survival, but on a desire to say goodbye to my killer.

I find myself dragging my cold carcass over to him as a cacophony of explosions, screams and gunfire erupt all around me. My entrails are beginning to make a kind of kink sausage and I’m surprised to find that, despite the fact that it’s summer, I feel like I’m crawling through snow.

When I finally reach my killer, I’m relieved to discover he’s still breathing. He’s facedown and I conclude he’s at that part when you realize there’s no chorus of angels coming down to get you.

I will myself to speak, but I can’t, so I nudge him. When I do, he turns his bearded face towards me. I see his eyes for the first time. They’re a cloudy grey and I can see myself reflected in them. I wonder if he recognizes me.

His eyes, to my satisfaction, signal realization. For some reason, I feel comforted.

He chuckles the says “f**’n yank” in his thick Georgian draw. His head then falls into the muck. When I can no longer see his chest rise and fall, I realize he’s gone. I am now alone.

I try to keep my head up, but my neck won’t cooperate. Eventually, it falls on its own and a wetness fills my ears. It gets dark. My eyes close on their own. They’ve lost the strength to keep themselves open. The thunder of war ceases, and the only awareness I have left is that I still exist. My pain slowly dissipates as does my sadness.

All I ever wanted was a farm. Unfortunately, I no longer see how that’s going to happen given the fact I am dead.