As I lay there in the snow--the cold, thick, freezing snow--I stare down the scope of a M21 sniper rifle. I lay in wait as people walk by, hoping , praying he shows his face. Time passes. I keep asking myself the same question what is the difference between an artist and a sniper? I think about how close an artist pays attention to detail. I realize a sniper uses the same amount of detail just in a more sadistic fashion. We both can tell when a touch of color is out of place. We both know when a shadow doesn’t match its surrounding. The only major difference is the risk. A sniper's is higher a lot higher. As I lay on the hills of the northern forests of Russia waiting for my target Sergei Mosin. He is the man who killed my father. Now I shall kill him to avenge my father and restore his honor back into my family. The men that were in my family were: strong, proud, and battle hardened.
My family tree was started right after the dark ages many many years ago. Every man who was killed by something other than a sickness, age, and his wife (A long and really fun story for a later time) was avenged. If I do not avenge my father I will be disowned by my own family. Since my father was a soldier on the frontlines he prepared me for the worst of combat and survival. As i’m in the middle of my train of thought I hear a branch snap behind me. I quickly roll to my right and fire two out of the twenty-one rounds from my rifle into the direction of the sound. I hear a loud thud followed by the sound of deer running. My body quickly pumps full of adrenaline my heart picks up pace and the feeling of unrest sets in. I slowly move to a different vantage point that scouted out earlier. It overlooks the same place as before a plaza in the center of town. I move quickly across the forest. My feet are quiet on the snow. In the middle of running I go back to the day my dad died and I had become the man of the house. It was the morning of my 16th birthday. I was getting ready for my birthday party. I had a couple of friends come over to hangout. We we’re in my cool finished basement my best friend Lopez had just poured everyone a cup of pop. One of my other friends Jeremy asked me about my dad. “I have not heard a thing from him since last weekend he said he would be home in time for the party but he must be running late.” After joking around for what felt like hours a knock came on the door. I was laughing so hard that i almost missed it. I had a something in my gut telling me not to open the door it felt like everything was telling me to join my friends but for some unknown reason i opened the door. The cup of pop that i was holding dropped out of my hand my heart sank my legs gave out and I froze. Standing in front of me was a flag a nicely Tri-Folded flag in a nice glass box. As I stand frozen I stare at the men in front of me. The one to my left stood stone cold showing no signs of emotion in his face which is odd. The man on right was balling his eyes out. I’ve seen these men before with my dad. They're his squadmates. Which makes the man on my left look even more odd to me. I studied his face more he had a scared chin, some sort of makeshift bandage and what looked like hatred in his eyes. I invited them inside to tell my mother. I was glad my friends were around because they helped me get my mind off my father. I remember Jeremy at one point climbing on to the dinner table and he got the smart idea of diving of and trying to crowd surf but no one caught him so it just looked like he supermaned of the table.
Everyone stayed until morning the next day. That was the best/worst day of my life. After the Party I Slept and prepared myself to avenge my father. So that’s where I am now. My hands started to feel numb but I just held my rifle harder. My trigger finger started twitching. My eyes become glued to the scope of the m21 and I start scanning more faces down in the plaza below. My body starts pumping full of adrenaline. My stomach get heavy. That’s when I spot him his face was different from when the first time I saw it. His hair was longer the scar on his chin was poorly hidden and the emotion in his eyes was no longer hatred it turned into panic. My heart fills with rage and hatred. I slowly move the crosshairs of the M21 right between his eyes. I slowly exhale waiting for the right moment to finish this man’s life. His body is a sad excuse even for a walking corpse. As he sits down on one of the many benches in the plaza. He sits with his back towards me one leg crossed on top of the other one. He sits there reading the newspaper. He looks so innocent but at the same time so guilty. I slowly bring the gun up and I slowly fire. Then I fire a few more rounds and then a few more and more and more. I kept firing until the bullets ran dry. The man had more holes than swiss cheese and look more like something out of the movies that real life or at least is sure as hell felt like it. People start to panic as they realize what just happened. I just killed a Russian spy who was working with my father. My dad must of knew that Sergei Mosin was a spy and went to expose him to his boss. Sergei must have killed him to keep his work a secret. Well I guess Sergei’s luck ran out as now he lays dead in a pool of his own blood half a mile in front of me. I smile sadisticly to myself. I hoped my dad watched on from the afterlife. I as lay in the snow I think back to my question that I asked myself earlier. Do you know what the difference between an artist and a sniper is? I think I could change my answer. Yes both a sniper and a artist pay attention to the details around them. They both use detail in their own satanic fashion. But the price for a mistake is the same difference as life or death for a sniper but for an artist there is no punishment. For artist a failure means a fresh start and a new idea where as a sniper doesn't get that chance. If a sniper fails they either end up dead and wiped off the face of the earth or they are somehow survive their own country will turn against them and hunt them down for their greater good. I will always remember this day as a day of relief and a day joy and freedom. I will place my dad’s flag of dedication on my wall. It will be a symbol of my pain my worst day of my life but yet a symbol of good memories. How can a symbol of death be so positive. But anyway this is my story the story of how my I avenged my dad.