It's a very short flash fiction about two soldiers, a Finnish and a Russian one. It's somewhat based on a (allegedly) true event.
The height of the snow was burying my knees. I left a red trail behind me as I kept on walking. I hoped that at some point, I would be home, maybe I wouldn’t bleed out. I had been walking so long, I wasn’t sure was it morning or afternoon or night. The force and cold of the wind pierced my face. I tried to cover my face with my left hand, as my right was covering the bullet wound.
Then in the distance, a soldier. Wearing different clothes than me. A rifle on his shoulder. Walking towards me, to the enemy lines, at least, my enemies lines. He saw me as I saw him. We didn’t stop, we kept walking. The distance between us wasn’t very long, you didn’t have to a skilled rifleman to shoot from that distance. Our surroundings were vast and white, only my blood brought color into this world. The cold harsh wind and the cracking sound of the snow broke up the silence that had been there before us. We kept walking towards, he went slightly to the right to let me pass. As we got closer, I saw the stars on his uniform, I knew he wasn’t part of my army. We passed each other and nodded a bit. He had a rifle, so did I, I had the symbol of my country on my hat, he had his. We, in a political way, were enemies, we were there to kill each other. But we didn’t pull out our rifles, we just nodded. He was going his way, and I was going mine. I didn’t look back, I don’t think he did either.
War is brutal and barbaric. But it shouldn’t turn you into that.