worthless

The smells, the fear, the adrenaline - I go.

Running forward.

My sword thrust forward - my enemy is faceless.

All around me the gunshots fire - I slow in my step - or is it just time slowing down before I complete my assault?

Nothing matters.

I push my thoughts away from there.

I hear the whirring of the helicopter blades, slicing through the air.

But I can still hear. I can still see what horrendous conflict is going down beneath, below on the muddy trails.

I am still fighting, still handling my blade as time speeds up again and down my enemy goes, joining the other ones fallen - friend and foe alike.

No - I sit on the edge of my bed now, wrenching my mind away from there again.

They say this happens to veterans, men of old age with post-traumatic stress.

But how can it? Their memory is much past their prime.

I'm only twenty three, but right now - I…I feel so much younger - my face buried in my hands, pitiful sobs shaking my body.

Like a child again.

I wish I really was - their innocence is such a treasure, a gift.

Through my eyes I can still see my fellow soldiers coming under fire - bullet holes showering their bodies - their screams, their cries.

They sent me back a week ago - away from the fighting, away from the horror.

Or so they thought.

I live the nightmare, no matter where I am.

Why do we fight this country?

No…why do I fight them? Why am I fighting at all?

Who started this despicable war?

And I trained them. All those young boys - I sent them to their deaths.

I run my hands through my hair - I feel the sweat coating my palms, my neck, penetrating my singlet.

My best friends are completely oblivious to this.

They ask, of course - but I don't dare say.

I would never admit - admit that I freaking hate this war, hate the carnage, hate very single thing about it.

So why do I fight?

Maybe - if I stop - I won't ever be able to pick up a sword again.

I fight to see this war end, or so I keeping telling myself - do I have another reason? An ulterior motive?

I doubt anybody would have a care in the world if I just stopped - just quit.

Never is there a single commending to my efforts in this pointless fighting.

It all goes down to him.

The hero - the face of the army - that man.

My best friend.

He's indifferent - he doesn't care what fame, what attention he receivers.

So why not give it to someone who would care?

The eternal question.

I mumble things to myself as I sit through another briefing.

They're sending me out again.

Back to the source of all my trauma.

Does anybody else suffer this way?

Constant flashes of the bloody warfare - my boys, my soldiers, clinging to life with their dying breaths? Their pleads, their cries - can anybody hear them?

Can you hear them?

Do you know what it's like?

You could never know - nobody ever will.

No one suffers the way I do - no one else could comprehend.

Today - today I'm going to fight again.

I sit with my head hanging - inside the helicopter.

I have no choice.

Fighting is the only option.

My boots splash against the sodden ground.

The smells, the fear, the adrenaline - I'm gone.