This could be longer, but I'm marginally satisfied with it.
The year is 1969 and he feels lost. The countdown ended hours ago but he still hears the echoing screams of the party goers, the high-octane thrums of new beginnings that permeated the air, mixed with the stench of beer. Fireworks and cries of glee from the town, the war was over! … but at what cost? He doesn't feel pride, relief, sadness; just empty, as though his ability to feel was lost in the sea of missing scars and broken buildings.
The war would never be over. This he knew.
The battles would rage on in his mind each night, straining against the sweat-soaked sheets to find the bullet rushing towards him was only a breeze from the open window. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to leave. He feels a bolt of something in his chest every time he walks past the abandoned mill and he hates himself.
He couldn't stand staying, but he couldn't bear to leave. The bloodstains on his hands will never wash off and he only wishes the scars stayed in their place. It would be a better indication that he was not a normal human being, that he hadn't been, no, not for a long time.
He cuts, but he does not bleed. He is hollow, made of gravel and regrets and he is broken. Fireworks thud in his chest and he ignores the fact that explosions are the only things he can feel anymore.
While the rest of the team fades away, packing their belongings and leaving with a new found lightness in their chests, he stays. He stays at the party long after it has ended, shards of glass crunching under his feet.
The torn streamers serve as a reminder that he will never be whole again.
Part of him wonders if he ever was in the first place.