A short story written for an assignment:

Freshly cut grass, the smell of patty to grill, my family and friends laughing; I sat, smiling with a grin the likes of which no one had seen for years.

“Congratulations! Congrats, Good on you O’Mali!” The crowd gave praise, they cheered me on, patted me on the back; I was ecstatic, I couldn’t help but throw my graduation cap up again. As it fell, my eyes drifted to newcomers; my lovely wife and some… old friends? They carried books, old ones, it seemed. My countenance gleamed at them and they smiled back. I stood and embraced my old pals. They even wore their old letterman's! Before I knew it, most of the party ushered inside and sat me in the middle of my living room! They gave me one of those dusty tomes and excitedly waited on me to flip through it. I had to oblige; I fanatically jumped to the first page. I was assaulted by photos of the football team, baseball and various different clubs. I was in a lot of them! Albeit nervously, I chuckled; I tried to disguise my emotion. I was perturbed, but continued flipping through the yearbook until stopping directly on my class. Analyzing the photos, I remembered these people, and their silly quotes! My anxiety peaked as I went down the list, until halting in an unyieldingly cold sensation; I tensed and my eyes locked on the photo of a young man. I uttered a single word, a name. “Ramirez…”

Gunfire was all I heard. If I listened closely, I could make out the screams of my fellow soldiers as they were pelted with bullets or the occasional explosion. Tanks racked behind me on the beaches, the menacing hedgehogs and dead bodies the only source of safety in this ocean of fire, of death. I clutched my rifle, I held it so tightly to my chest, I felt short of breath. I lied against a pile of fallen comrades for dear life, but… I could hear someone, a voice was ripping through the agony.

“C’mon O’Mali! You’re stronger than this! -” My perception was blinded for a moment, a large explosive discharging and cutting the volume. I desperately crawled through the mud and blood, searching for that voice again. I found it. My best friend. Ramirez, he crouched below the edges of a torn tank, using the metal as cover. I was prone, but I raised a hand at my friend, shakily gesturing for a sense of familiarity in this hell. I couldn’t hear, but he looked to laugh, then smiled.

“Are you gonna let some Nazi scum do this to you!” Ramirez shouted, perking over his cover and unloading round after round into the bases above. He flicked his fingers up and gestured forth. The bastard is moving forward! I huffed, but clamored to my feet. He was going, so I had to. I swallowed my fear and full-sprinted up to another blockade of bodies. Again, I searched for my friend, every second without him in view instilling insatiable dread. Suddenly, his voice rang out again and my eyes planted on him without fault. He jut upwards and climbed his cover, yelling, “Forward!”

My heart stopped. The whistling, the unholy whistling. It grew louder and louder until… explosion. My friend was engulfed in flame, my friend was gone.
I snapped back to the photo. My face cringed and my eyebrows began to tremble. Droplets fell to the book, and I glanced back to my diploma, which lied propped up on a table. His quote read, “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional,” and I smiled amidst the tears.