of gunfire and bullet wounds

by endlessly wandering

Sometimes, I think he still sees himself there; still in that shitty camp, still under the cold and wet amongst warm bodies, still amongst the dead and the living and unable to tell who was which.

2. Chapter 2

of gunfire and bullet wounds

There's too many words to describe the war; yet, at the same time, there's not enough.

I remember nothing but pain. Pain from training, from leaving my gang, from getting shot at and being a prisoner. The lashes still burn; the smell of smoke still cakes my mouth—

the pain is still there; lingering, haunting, waiting.

I can still hear them. The gunshots; the roaring of trucks and gunfire; the smell of smoke; everything, anything, and it hurts like hell.

I can still hear them crying. I can hear them crying for their mothers, their siblings, their fathers and to God himself. I hear their whimpers of helplessness, see the death slowly trickle into their eyes until there's nothing left but the eventual pierce of a gunshot wound on the side of their head to make it fade.

It's what they wanted. It's what we all wanted.

I went each day hoping, praying, even begging God to take me; and yet, I knew what was at stake. I knew I was putting myself in deep shit, with the big guy in the sky and my own big guy down on Earth—Darry.

I remember the first time I was beaten. I was starving, almost complete bone, and I had no strength to resist when they came to get me. They didn't need to drag me—I was light enough to where they could pick me up—but even so, the stones bit into my neck and my back like daggers.

I was propped up on my knees against a wooden pole, and one of the enemies spoke to me in his native tongue. In my lack of response, I heard him strike the whip to the ground; I shuddered, to which he laughed and swung.

With each nick, the pain intensified until I couldn't hold my breath any longer. I would cry and curse and let the pain take over me; I had nothing else to do but to be consumed. Broken, bleeding, and absolutely petrified, I was thrown back into my huddle, where I was left again in the quiet and cold.

I see the way Darry and Pony look at me. I listen to them talk when they don't think I'm listening. I can see the worry and hurt inside of them as if a neon sign were blazing it over their heads.

It's sickening, and I wish I would've died alongside all of those innocent men, for then they would only have to watch my body be lowered into a casket than go each day watching me, pitying me, regretting me.

Millions of men got that same treatment. Millions of them died. Millions of my brothers died every day.

But somehow, I got to live. Somehow, I have to make it through the day with their cries in my head and the beatings on my back. Somehow, I have to go on living.

Somehow.