The Park

Rain fell from the cold heavens, it fell on to the man, drenching his brown hair, and trickling down his face, little drops fell off his nose, and on to the ground shattering, into smaller drops.

His head hung low, and his eyes where dead, empty, the colour had drained out of them, and his skin has turned a cold pale.

He sat on a bench made of maple, it too was soaked, turning the wood a deeper colour, beneath the bench was a grass that had turned to straw, from lack of rain, it had been a long time since the last rain. The rain could not soak into the hard ground, and it pooled at the man’s feet, seeping into his shoes and making his feet pain in the cold.

Around him was a park, that had not seen the laugh of a child in a long time, the swings were broken, and slide a bent out of shape, and many of the money bars were missing.

He slowly took something out of his pocket; it was thin, metal, and ended in a point. He slowly brought it up to his eye, and gazed at it.

It was a medal; it was a triangle, with the depiction of five stars on it.

The sudden crack of thunder, doesn't faze the man, his eyes are attached to the thin, metal object.

His hand is guided down to his pocket, a piece of paper is pulled out, and it rest in his hand, shielded from the rain.

Tears have now joined the rain, but they do not flow, they leak out of the man eyes, as his heart slows down, its beat, and his surroundings become fuzzy.

He lies on the bench, putting the paper on his heart, and all light fades away, as flashing lights appear in the distance.

A gentle breeze blows across the park, knowing the paper out of his hands, reviling the words; We regret to inform you that your son has passed away on the battle field. The rain taking the ink away as it flows over the paper.