Drunk Depression

Everyone was dead. Their blood on me. Everyone had been killed. Everything I knew was gone, the buildings burned, and the bodies buried. I checked the Manifest. Every mother and child, soldier and worker. I buried them all. Tank was gone, I saw him get shot in front of my eyes. Demetri was dead, I killed him with my bare hands. Every friend, enamy, ally, and neutral. Everything was gone. All my life, Everything to live for, and to die for. I didn't know what was next. I was on my last cigarello. When all the bodies were buried, I looked over the gaveyard. Every body was accounted for and every grave was full. All but one, the one that i stood at the foot of.
It was my 19th birthday when the full moon reached it's peak. I put the last cigarello in my maw and lit it with a red paw marked lighter. I was alone in the New Mexico desert. I felt the wind blow through my long black fur. My eyes were indifferent in the light of the old lighter.
"Happy Birthday, Jase," I whispered as I took the cigarello from my mouth and threw it with the lighter into the empty grave.
I pushed the shovel in the dirt beside the grave and hung my coat. The green alpha marked coat with the nametag "J. Grut". The coat I wore to the battle, and my father had worn before me.
Silently I turned from the sight and walked to the Technical truck. It was in a state of disrepair. The radio was destroied, the machinegun mount bent off, and the paint gone. All that remained inside were my guns: the blood-stained .45 caliber pistol which finished Demetri, my standard issue M-16 that aided me in the assult, and my 12 gauge shotgun with less than a mile on it. The engine on the technical worked when I turned the key and drove away from the past.