I guess this is just a story about a young girl in war. This just came off the top of my head and I might continue.
All I had left was the small photograph clutched in my right hand. My head felt sore and I could feel the open wound throbbing with every sharp breath I took. I felt the same pain near my temple and my bottom lip. My tongue gently nudged it, tasting the bitter, metallic taste of dried, old blood. My nostrils flared, finally inhaling the fresh, wild air, but the weight of my gun strapped around my body slowed me down. War was finally over. After seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months of fighting in war, I had escaped alive, wounded badly but feeling confident. I was more than sure our foes were dead and gone, their bodies lying motionless on the cool, Spring grass of America. And sadly, my friends were gone, too. Their souls were somewhere in Heaven. I knew they were looking down on us, on those who were constantly being haunted by the image of their fellows being penetrated by the bullets of those filled with so much hatred.
It felt as if clumps of cotton were stuffed in my mouth, and my throat was extremely parched. I had been searching for some sort of water source for hours, but I had found none. It felt as if I would collapse any moment. But when my ears heard the distant, faint sound of trickling water, my heart did a flip inside of my chest. But I couldn't run, no matter how bad I wanted to.