I used to think dying would feel dramatic.
Like there'd be a moment where everything slows down. Where life flashes before your eyes.
A final line before the end.
It's a lie.
Death is the end of everything. There was no glory in it.
People can find meaning in your actions but you don't know what they choose in the end.
When monsters tear through your formation and your squad pushes too far past the outer barricade.
All because we saw someone screaming for help.
We thought we were better, we thought we could be heroes. Perform heroic deeds, gain recognition.
That wasn't the case.
By the time we had arrived, he was already dead. His chest caved in from the weight of the beast pushing down on him from above.
I still remember the smell of iron and ash.
Stumbling over broken stone, turning around to flee only to see the death that awaited me.
It was then that I realised, death wasn't glorious.
