Story writing debate

Jonathan Dietrich was a decent man. He lived in a sturdy, modest home, with a small family of three. He was charming, though a bit rough around the edges. The days of his life seemed to click together like well-machined parts, each one polished and shaped into a perfect vision of monotony. Wake up. Make bed. Get dressed. Groom self. Eat breakfast. Stand Guard. Eat. Stand Guard. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. This was his third year in the army, and his second deployed to the Evincian border. He stood rigidly on the ramparts, crossbow in hand, eyes on the horizon. Fixed on the black and white tessellated ribbon which was the half-frozen River Tarsha, and on the ghostly peaks beyond, partly obscured by thick white snowfall. Beside him, on the immense, gray stone wall of a tower, were etched several tallies in powdery white. He spat on the ground, and it froze. At first he did not see the figure that emerged from the woods, huddled over, limping slightly, stumbling and floundering hurriedly across the snowy field as if through lime. Upon first taking notice of it he thought that perhaps it was some animal: wounded prey fleeing from some predator. But it was alone. A refugee. He readied his crossbow, winding back the bolt. The action was accompanied by a series of rhythmic clicks which calmed him. He took a deep breath, aimed, and released. The sound of the bolt firing was sharp, the recoil small but impactful; its trajectory was only slightly off. He didn’t hear the impact, but he saw the weary lump of rags collapse, a single thin white leg stretched out onto the pristine snow, and a red blossom slowly unfurling from it as if from some strange pale stem. ~*~ Lavinia hadn’t felt the bolt enter her calf; it had gone numb hours ago. She had only felt a support crumble, and the dim sensation of falling. Now, lying in the snow, she felt sharp burn of cold on her cheek. She could still see the river, just within reach. The will to crawl, to drag her belly over a field of broken glass if need be, was there. But the machinery of her body had failed, and the frantic orders given by her mind elicited naught but insipid twitches. Drowsiness began to creep into her brain, dissolving what scant hope had animated her. But a part of her was still frantically driving her forward, but not towards anything. It was a deep, visceral fear, and as it seized her painful visions surfaced. A tear, all she could muster, froze on her eyelashes as she slowly pushed herself to her knees and began to crawl. The fear had passed now, and she felt nothing at all. She only saw her brother laughing the meadow, and her mother rocking a baby to sleep on the front porch. She saw her father, in his broad brimmed hat, surveying the fields at high noon. She tried to smile, but couldn’t. Then there was a dull thud, the crunch of bone, and the thin crimson tendril trailing behind her flung a second red bloom across the snowy field. ~*~ Jonathan lowered the crossbow. It was a good shot. They would clean up the body tomorrow. Reaching down beside him, he picked up a cracked piece of chalk and scratched another tally into the gray wall. He spat on the ground. Jonathan Dietrich was a decent man.