I
never asked to be here. I carried enough to weigh me down, forcing me to slog
through the muck I treaded daily. The weight was enough to collapse under, fall
face first into the mud beneath me. This
was not allowed. We were trained to stay upright, to tread on. “Don’t tread on
me”. What a fucked-up phrase. We don’t have freedom. Individualism. We’re all
just lost in this land of nothingness. Look at our First Lieutenant Jimmy
Cross, he can barely keep his head on straight, dreaming of seducing Martha.
Henry Dobbins drowns his feelings in the sugary syrup of canned peaches. Dave
Jensen, the clean freak, doesn’t he know we’re all going to die of disease.
Then there’s me. The scaredy-cat in the troop’s eyes. I call it preparedness,
but then again what do I know?
What
is war? Is it a fight, a battle, a disagreement, or a difference of opinions?
War is conflict. Conflict of myself. I’m lost. So are the ghosts. The ghosts
that we carry. We float into the empty spaces of the mind being pulled further
and further away from reality. Not that it matters. We’re all just murderers performing
a service to the audience. A necessary service. We’re constantly in the spotlight.
Fear of people’s opinions, fear of our opposers, and fear of ourselves. Maybe it
would be nice to be a ghost, to be the burden instead of the bearer. All I had
to do was draw the 17.
Night
is god’s hour in war. I’m not religious, but it’s nice to believe in something
more. Everyday I feel empty, hollow, unattached, yet still I find myself
sinking. The weight becoming more unbearable each and every day. Night is
serene. I can dream of home. I’m flying. I don’t have a destination, I’m free
to choose. The air is cool and crisp, a new sensation for my lungs. I breathe
in and out, in and out, in and out. I close my eyes. I am one with the night.
But peace only lasts so long. My eyelids fill with an orange blaze dancing in
the wind. Engulfing everything around me. The screams. The terror. The fear. I
awake to the sun blinding my eyes.
Am I
a coward? Is it bad to show fear? That’s what Lieutenant Cross would say, and
the rest of the troop would have to agree. Maybe I’m just human. At least still
human. Everyone else lost that, they became one with war instead of night. Maybe
I’m headed down that road. We’ve lost hope. First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross will accept
that Martha never loved him. Henry Dobbins will realize he’s simply an obese middle-aged
man. Dave Jensen will discover he can never cleanse himself from the germ that
is himself. And Ted Lavender. Me. I will survive. Carry-on.
Boom.
The guy’s dead.
