The General

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"The General"

by C. N. Nevets, (c) 2011

The General sat on the floor his living room –

General.  Hardly.  In name only.  He was no general any longer.  Perhaps once he'd been.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory –

War.  Not glory.  Battle.  Bloodshed.  Justice.  Lawfulness.  Many noble things, but not glory.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory and at his left the traces of quiet happiness –

Traces?  Books and photographs and keepsakes and locks of hair.  More than traces.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory and at his left the traces of quiet happiness.  Before him, the proof of futility –

Evil unstopped by war.  Loved ones unprotected by strength.  Cherished people, suffering despite his sacrifice.

Before him, the proof of futility, and behind him, the proof of vacancy.

The emptiness which he could not face.  The emptiness of powerlessness and acceptance.

The General sat on the floor of his living room, at his right hand the weapons of glory and at his left the traces of quiet happiness.  Before him, the proof of futility, and behind him, the proof of vacancy.

And on his face a look of passivity –

Not contentment.  Not peacefulness.  Simply abandonment of passion.  Acceptance.

And on his face a look of passivity, as I pressed my gun to his head and squeezed the trigger –

His final order.

My obedience.

“Yes, sir.”

The General lay on the floor of his living room.  Near his head were the tools of his life's work.  Near his feet were the mementos of his life's loves.  He was bathed in an aura of lapsed utility.

And on his face was a quiet smile, as if the first contractions before the birth of a laugh.