I used to primarily write fiction in middle school. This was a snippet from a short story I came across. I have no idea what corner of my brain this is from…

Marion stood on the edge of a trench, watching the smoke clear. Fat drops of blood had begun to soak into the thick fabric of his uniform. It’s not mine, He knew. He could smell the blood on his hands, more potent as he ran his fingers through his blonde hair, smearing it with red. And for what?

He looked down at his feet at the pair of severed fingers that lay there, index and middle. Bending down, the soldier snatched up the fragments. Holding the foreign fingers in his hand, Marion pressed on the proximal bone protruding from the base of the index finger. The surrounding skin was clammy to the touch. Closing his fist around the severed joints, Marion begged to remember the last time he had held someone’s hand.

Luciana, 14