I'm not going to introduce these chapters any more. It ruins the effect.

Nameless Soldiers

Soldier's Loneliness

We are all nameless soldiers, seeking for purpose.

I watch him walk away and I can do nothing. I know he doesn't like me, but my head can't help but dream of him. I wish I could be as brave as him, to stand alone and pretend to not need help and comfort while the others blatantly show it in front of us all. I'm not sure who is the boldest. We keep so many secrets between us, so many things I would dare not tell the adults. I fear the adults' scorn, but the others know what it feels like, to be our age and full of these feelings and emotions and pain and sadness and longing.

I feel disgusted with myself, but I know I won't stop. I hate the mess, the embarrassment, and I wonder how the others can stand to hold themselves. I wonder if I'll ever have someone, so I won't have to spoil myself and be ashamed.

I call them all my friends, though they barely acknowledge me. I'm too different, too childish. My childish dreams and childish thoughts and little-boy looks don't fit my nightly acts of ungodliness. I am an outcast, and not by choice, unlike he who sits on the hill pretending not to care.

The raindrops mask the tears I know are falling from my eyes. I remember all those people who have cared enough to die for me. They like me because I'm one of them, grown in a laboratory, unknowing of his true family . . . only I do know. I'm too scared they'll leave me if I admit I'm not a test-tube child, as all of them were. I was the only one of thirty siblings to have been born of a natural mother. That she died after is almost ironic.

My father's forgiveness came so easily when I returned. Now I know he'd planned his death all along. He must have believed he knew how I felt about fighting. He was my father . . . but I have to call him a fool. I retain my belief that lives are not worth wasting. True, there are millions of us, but every one of us is worth more than can be ever expressed. The boundaries of love are limitless. They extend beyond the ends of the infinite universe, far past where the passionate stars call home.

I'm a lot less innocent than I look. It's not my fault I don't look grown-up. When we go to dinner, I still get the kids' menus. I don't mind. It helps me forget who I am. It helps me forget what I've done. Because, like a child, I lose control. I can't help myself. I can't control my grief. I can't control my anger. I can't control my lust. I can't control anything.

Gomen, I apologize in general to whoever is willing to pay that much attention. I have to be sorry, or I'd commit suicide. We all need something to escape. I have my insanity. I don't want it to go away. I don't dare think of what I'd do.

For all the compassion I have, none is returned. People don't give a damn. Sometimes I want to scream "FUCK IT!" and get it over, but my gentle nature betrays me. The words won't form. While the Catholic boy hurls curses and insults and claims people's lives I can't utter a noise of defiance against myself. Sometimes, I want to force my desire against the wall and have my way, just so I could feel flesh and pain and pleasure and not feel so guilty. I want to fuck him until he surrenders. I want to surrender myself and let him fuck me. I like that word, fuck. It's full of conviction, certainty. I just can't say it.

Here I stand, nameless for all that the world cares, a soldier lost not only through his sadness but also through his desire for the one thing he won't have.

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