English 125 - Quote in the Third Person

He could hear it in the frantic scuttle of nurses' feet. He could smell it in the way-too-clean hospital stench that drove up his nostrils. He could feel it in the faint beeping of the heart rate monitor that constantly mocked him with irregularities. Today would be the last. And as his mother lay deteriorating before his eyes, Kyle knew there was nothing he could do about it. He tried to take his mind of the cancerous cells ravaging his mother's liver and brain but no amount of Game Boy or twiddling his thumbs would allow him to escape fate. And as the night drew on and tears flooded his eyes, a cloaked figure glided through the hall and accompanied him at the bedside. Laying down his scythe on the table and removing his hood, Death took a few moments to sympathize alongside him before looking at him through eyes not of malice but of sorrow. At that moment, it was as if Death channeled the stoic voice of Marcus Aurelius and whispered, "It was for the best, so Nature had no choice but to do it."  Matching Death’s gaze with drenched eyes of his own, Kyle finally gave a little nod, the subtlest of commands. On cue, Death gathered up his belongings and strode out the way he came in; taking with him the last drops of life Kyle’s mother had left. And with that, no longer was Kyle mocked at sixty beats a minute. Flat-line had put him out of his misery.

That day, Kyle peered into Death's sad eyes, witnessing a sense of pain that was a match for none other than his own. And knowing that his mother's passing was as excruciating for Death as it was for him gave Kyle a sense of peace. Kyle no longer struggled or wanted to challenge Death to a Battle Royale for his mother's last moments but instead graciously passed her on to a being that could care for her better. Perhaps Death was to be pitied. Death killed not for pleasure but for necessity, so that Nature could run its course. And as Kyle saw that Death too was a slave of fate, Kyle laid down his arms and accepted what was to happen. 

English 125 - Reverse Chronology

As our eyes glossed over with the tears of defeat, we solemnly raised our white flag. The clatter of rifles falling to the ground harmonized by the hollow tones of bitter surrender rang through the piercing sound of gunshots and cannon fire. Our beloved leader could guide us no longer.  The image of his mortal body returning to Mother Nature’s earthly grips was complemented only by his soul gracefully drifting upward towards the heavens. As the shrapnel tore and gnashed its way through General Cunningham’s crimson-stained chest, the spark of adventure fleeted from his eyes to be replaced by the most stoic of stares. Guided by divine intervention, a single shell landed mere feet from the head of our command. Like always, the Gods of War had been unjust. With cannon fire blazing through the murky skies and brothers-in-arms from both sides toppling like pins in a bowling alley, the Gods of War suddenly finally decided that they were bored. For hours, good men from both sides charged the frontlines, praying for salvation with every tap of the trigger. The instant cacophony of violence and bloodshed shredded the tranquility that preceded it. This was our last stand. Shrouded by dark cloak of the night, we readied our rifles, locked our bayonets, and struck first. We knew we could defend no longer. Ammunition had dwindled to critical levels and starvation threatened to bring about feral cannibalism. We had stood our ground in the bloodbath of stalemate, fueled by the desperate desire to preserve our own lives. Like fireflies, cigarette tips flared up all around me as my fellow men tried to get their last tastes of tobacco bliss. We were down to our final stronghold.