Life means fighting.

I took a wiff of the air, cigarettes and all, before jumping down into a hole. It was big enough to fit 2 men a bit smaller than me, standing up.

If I stood up, my hair would give away my hiding spot.

I crouched down, knees begging to touch the soil. My arm reached back to touch my bag, feeling only comfort when I touched it. Up above, there was shouting, then gunshots.

More shouting- commands to hide to body. I heard shuffling, a yell in glee as no doubt there was food stuffed in the pockets of the person who was killed.

Something fell from up above, my eyes widened, and I was pushed down into the earth with the dead body of a man in his 20s by the looks of it. I stifled yells as the blood seeped into my already bloody jacket.

A strong man does not shout over blood.

A strong man does not jump in surprise.

A strong man does not cry.

I shoved the body of the man off me, the second the retreating footsteps were gone.

Even though there was a doubt that anything worth using was on the man, I still scavenged his pockets. Nothing except for a letter to his girlfriend.

I bit my lip, then kept his paper. It would be useful eventually.

To exit, I put my gun up, then my face. No one was there.

Climbing out of the hole. Then feeling something fall onto my foot.

Falling out of a tree.