He held his rifle against his shoulder, aiming forward, and held his breath.
He had never shot a rifle in his life before. Only in the brief training exercise did he learn how to clean and maintain his ‘trusted life companion’, but everything else was new to him. He had heard the sounds of gunshots before, but never heard it so close to him, the ear-deafening explosions and the bullets flying past him. His comrades weren't so lucky, as those bullets made contact with skin and bone. The enemy was dropping them like flies. This realization made him feel weaker, the fact that he was in the middle of a heated fight, but that didn't make him let go of his rifle.
He steadied his rifle, placing his sights over one lone target, and put his finger on the trigger. Sooner or later, he thought, he would have to squeeze that trigger. He would feel the recoil of the rifle, the same ear-deafening sound he had heard before would be made, and the bullet would come flying out of the barrel, towards his target before hitting whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in its way. This gave him the feeling of confidence, the fact that he could end a threat just by the pull of a trigger. Grinning, he found his target: a equally stern looking man, holding an equally threatening looking rifle, pointed at him. He lost that grin on his face immediately.
Without the slightest feeling of remorse, he squeezed the trigger.
Within five seconds, the rifle did its magic. An explosion, followed by the recoil, and a lead bullet flying out of the barrel. It only took five seconds for it to start; from inside his gun to the chest of the other man. The bullet tore through that man, tearing through cloth, skin, and bone. Blood splattered everywhere, as the man fell to his knees. He screamed a blood-curdling scream before falling to the ground, dropping his own rifle. He looked sad, almost like he was regretting something.

He stood there, shocked at what had just happened. He had seen people die before, his closest friends, his loved ones, his superiors. In fact, that was what fueled him, his desire to sign up for the army. He wanted revenge, and at the same time, forgiveness. He had never been able to support his community in any other way. Now, in the army, he could die for a cause, something that would make him feel less guilty for his “sins.” But here, on the battlefield, fighting people of your own country, he suddenly realized that fighting wasn't that glorious. Sure, there would be tales to be told, heroic acts of selflessness told in pubs and the victories announced on the papers, but it would be for nothing. It was all lies, compared to all the horror.
As he stood there motionlessly, with rifle in one hand and a cartridge in the other, he thought to himself; Was it worth it? Was it worth risking his life for him to overcome guilt? After all, none of his memories could be forgotten. Revenge wasn't much of a thing to fight for either; his parents were murdered, his siblings ran away, and all he had left was himself. Nothing could be done about it. Why bother doing something about it now? Why think about such things in the middle of a battle? What the heck was wrong with him?
He fell to his knees, besides the fallen soldier, whose gray jacket was now stained with red. Carefully, he reached for the soldier’s back; he was looking for something to identify him with. He found nothing. Sighing, he stood back up, look up at the sky. “What do I do now?” he thought to himself. If only, he thought, if only he could do something about it.
Five seconds later, a sharp feeling hit him. Looking down, he saw that he had been shot. The pain was agonizing, but all he did was lay down onto the forest floor, as soldiers ran past and over him. Bleeding intensely, he tried to stop the wound, but the pain was too much for him. He gave up, deciding that it wasn't worth it. Looking back up into the blue sky, he felt the end coming. His vision became blurry, everything fading out. Before he left the world, he turned to his side, looking at the soldier he shot, who was also conscious. Before the other man dropped his head against the moss of the forest floor, the grey-coat muttered one last word.

“Brother?”

He didn't even have the chance to say anything back.