I’m a junkie, so a high tolerance is the enemy.
I fight for that which makes me feel
something. We walk around the battlefield, glowing in the dark. All the corpses have disappeared. Thousands of lives lost because
of one man’s selfishness. Puppet masters
pulling strings. What does this even mean? Veterans think the fighting is dumb. The
rubber mask I wear is featureless, dirtied.
Stitches outline the mouth and go around the
circles where the ears were cut off. “I’m a
monster,” I sob. You take one look at me, my
uniform torn, bloody, and sweaty. My whole
body shaking with the force of my tears. You
gently grab my arm, avoiding my many
wounds, and pull me into a tight embrace.
“Yes, you are,” you say firmly. “But that’s not
who you are.” We stay holding each other for
a while, then withdraw in defeat.
Will Sandberg graduated from Flagler College and lives in Florida. He loves his wife, PC gaming, and watching sports.
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