“Joey,” I hear a low hiss from near the opened window. “Are you up?” I cock my head in confusion, thinking I surely lost it as I make my way to the window side.

I don’t see anyone, so I roll my eyes, thinking that I had probably imagined it now. I’ve gone delusional, I laugh to myself when a hand reaches out and grabs me by my collar, a hand slapping over my mouth to muffle my scream of horror.

“Shut up, Joey!” It's Jesse. He scowls, blue eyes icy. He adds, “You don’t want to wake the entire camp, now do you? So, zip it.” He lets go of my collar and mouth, rolling his eyes at me.

“Wait, what are you doing here? I’m confused. Jesse, why...?” But I didn’t have the chance to finish my sentence because Jesse throws me a cold look and hisses, “Climb out of the window. I need to talk to you. Away from these people.” The way Jesse says people makes it seem as if they were evil which baffles me more.

Fighting the urge to scream, “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, JESSE?!” I merely obey his request, climbing out of the window as fast and as quietly as I could.

The moment I’m outside, Jesse grabs my wrist hard and yanks me with him, forcing me to run. I can’t keep up with him—he's much taller than I am.

I say, peeved, “What’s going on, Jesse?” but he doesn’t answer me.

Of course. He never answers until he’s ready.

We come to a stop, far away from the camp. Jesse looks anxious as he lets me go, pressing his fist against his mouth. He removes his fist from his mouth, saying, “So. How have you been?”

“What?!” I scream. “What the hell, Jesse?!” Is that the only reason he woke me up? To ask me how I’ve been? I mean, seriously. What the hell?

Jesse doesn’t say anything. He blinks.

“What in hell’s name are you talking about?” I snarl at him, running a hand through my hair. I groan, tilting my head back before glaring at him. “What is going on? That’s why you woke me up to ask me how I’ve been?” I glower at him.

He shrugs. “No, not necessarily.”

“Then what is it?”

A troubled look darts on his face as he laces his fingers together. His eyes are downcast as he mutters, “It’s somethin’ ‘bout Mom.”

My heart drops to the floor as I gape at my older brother. “W-what do y-you mean?” I choke out.

“She decided to take her life.” Jesse’s face is a mask of pain and shadows of guilt. The words are spun with heavy anger, frustration and confusion.

“WHAT?!” I feel my knees give way as I fall to the ground, my hands covering my face. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no!” Tears burn my eyes as I rake my fingers through my hair viciously. I can’t breathe properly. The world spins and everything becomes a blur. Everything seems too loud suddenly: my heavy breathing, my hammering heart, my blood rushing to my head... Everything hurts. Everything feels painful as tears spill, my body trembling with raging bewilderment. Why—why—would my mother take her own life?

At that moment, I blame Jesse for leaving home. I blame myself for not staying with her. I blame my father who was an alcoholic, abusive man who then decided to take his life for no good reason. I blame the world for being so cruel to me, for taking my mother away from me. I blame the God I don’t believe in, asking Him why He had to take my mother away.

She was still young. Only forty-six in age. She still had so much more life. And it was gone.

“How did she kill herself?” I demand tearfully. “Tell me!” I lunge forward and grab Jesse by his collar, startling him.

“Uh. She...she…she.” Jesse stutters.

“Answer me you fucking idiot!” I can’t believe myself. I just swore. I ignore that jab in my stomach as I glare at Jesse.

Jesse looks shocked. Maybe because I said the f-word? He shakes his head rapidly as he stammers, “G-gun. S-she shot her-herself.” And he turns away, tears filling his blue eyes.

I shove him hard with both hands, crying. “Now she’ll never get to see us having kids.” It pains me. I always wanted Mom to see me having a wife and kids. Now she’ll never get the chance. Never.

“Wait,” I say, wiping away my tears, “do you know about Father’s death?”

“...yeah.”

“How come you didn’t come to the funeral?” I ask him.

“Because that man did nothing for me. He hurt me every day at the house, called me names—bad names—and starved me countless times. I didn’t—and don’t—care about his death. But Mom’s...” Jesse looks torn.

“That’s why you didn’t go?” I look at him, but he doesn’t look at me.

“Yeah.”

“W-will Mom have a funeral?” I hope she does. She deserves to be buried peacefully.

“Yeah.”

“When?” I whisper, curling my hands into fists.

“Um. A week from now I believe.” Jesse rubs the back of his neck.

“Well. Are you going?” I can’t cry anymore. My voice sounds hollow.

“Yeah.”

I doubt him even more now.

“Positive?” I say, trying to stop a growl in my throat.

“Joey, our mom just died. Of course I’m going to her funeral! She cared for us so much...why. Why wouldn’t I?” Jesse runs a hand through his hair, snarling, “Fuck this...”

I hold my breath before grating out, “Where are you stationed at?” and he looks stunned.

“Come again?” Jesse says a puzzled look flickering on his face.

“I didn’t see you at the camp I’m at. So, question: where the hell are you stationed at?” I glare at him.

“I’m on my own, Jo. You don’t need to stick your nose in my business. Okay? I’m fine. I’ve been fine on my own.” Jesse tries to dismiss the question.

“Sure.” My voice sounds hard now. I don’t think it’s healthy to go through a variety of emotions in such a fleeting period.

“You don’t trust me?” Jesse says, his eyes wide.

“No, not really.” I don’t meet his seething glare.

“Fuck you, Joey. Seriously. Fuck you!” Jesse sneers, his lips curled in anger.

“Go fuck yourself...” I turn away from him, running back to camp ignoring Jesse’s cries.

The word “why” is the lowest timpani, thundering in my head. My heart is like broken guitar strings, completely out of tune. I can’t breathe properly as I run blindly to the camp, tripping over a discarded gun, swearing loudly.

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. I’m crying again, wiping my tears with my sleeve. It’s not fair. Hell, nothing’s ever fair, is it? I stagger about before falling beside the camp border, leaning against a tree, sobbing hysterically.

“It’s not fair!” I hear myself scream into the early morning. “It’s not fair!” The sobs are deep and raw, the tears coming down fast.

“Fuck you, world,” I spit.

Fuck you, Joey, whispers the back of my mind and I realize then, that yeah. It’s a fucked up place. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. It’s every man for himself. No one’s going to help you if you fall. You have to stand up by yourself. If someone threatens to hurt you, you threaten to kill them. It’s a tough world.

“The world’s a scary place, Joey,” Father had told me. “It’s filled with freaks, weirdos, idiots, and a bunch of assholes. Someone will raise their fist to you, and you know what you must do? In order to survive? You raise your fist, and you don’t back down. That’s what a real man does.” 

Maybe he was correct. Maybe with all those punches, beatings, lashings, slappings, and yellings was to prepare me for what it meant to be a soldier. A warrior. A goddam, hardshell man who won’t break under pressure.

But I failed.

I flinch at the sight of blood, I cry when I get emotionally hurt, I can’t bring a fist to an enemy—so who am I?

“You’re not your father, Joey,” Mom had said to me one night after Father whipped me. “You know?”

Of course I’m not him! I wanted to scream. I'll never be him!

Mom had regarded me with a pitying look, her hand squeezing my shoulder. “Joey,” she had said, “you are also not your brother. And you’re not me. You are you. I want you to know that despite all, that even though you are from me and your father, that you are still your own person. You have the right to cry. You have the right to smile. You have the right to raise your voice, to say, ‘I am me. I am Joey Asher Byariars. I am talented in many ways. I am a human. No one—no one—can break me’.”

At that time, I thought it was some mother-son pep talk. It probably was, but I can’t forget the look in her eyes. The pride, the pain, the hope.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I choke out, my fingers tangling in my hair. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t the best. I’m so sorry...”

I want her to comfort me. I do. But that’s selfish, is it? Even though I’m twenty-two, I still feel like I’m twelve, looking for my mother’s embrace.

“Joey?” I hear from above.

I look up sharply and find out that it is Talyor. His brows are furrowed, and his amber eyes are filled with concern.

“What?” I mumble.

“You okay, bro? You’re cryin’ and you look li’ you’re in pain.” Talyor says.

“I’m.” I want to say fine but then I’m lying. “I’m!” I don’t know what to say. Should I say “okay”?

“Yer...what?” Talyor raises an eyebrow.

“Nothing.” I mumble.

“Don’t say shit, Joey,” Talyor says, crossing his arms over his chest. I notice that his shirt is torn, the pattern a zigzag across his chest and stomach. No sleeves, I note. 

“I’m not,” I argue with the older soldier.

“Are you okay?” He crouches beside me.

“No, I’m not okay. Why would I be okay? I’ll never be okay...” I spit out.

Talyor pats my shoulder. “Keep talkin’.”

“I hate the world; it’s so frigging mean. I hate myself; I wish I could die. Hell, I deserve to die.” I feel my cheeks flush as Talyor’s eyes go wide and round.

“No one deserves to die, Joey,” he admonishes.

“Some do.” I say glumly.

“Nah, no one does. Lemme tell you a story, ‘kay?” Talyor’s amber eyes are locked with mine so I can’t help but nod. 

“Believe it or not, but I was charged for third degree murder,” Talyor says, a ghost of a grin on his face.

“WHAT?!” I shriek, jumping up.

“Yeah. Sit down. Lemme explain.” Talyor waits for me to settle down.

“You see,” he says, a frown on his lips, “it was unintentional. Involuntary. I went to prison for uh...three years, charged a ton of money. I was seventeen when I accidentally killed someone who happened to be my friend. That’s right. My friend. Um.” Talyor laces his fingers together. “We were...drunk that day, high as hell. He called me a creep. Why? I dunno. I got real pissed. I told him to lay it off and he said that I hurt his girlfriend. He started accusing me of things I didn’t do.

“Anyhow, he said he caught me kissin’ his girlfriend and that, yeah, got to admit I did that. I tried to say sorry, but I was drunk. He was too. Everythin’ came out slurred and he decided to punch me hard ‘cross the face. I drew a fist to punch him, but he kicked me, screaming, callin’ me names an’ all. I. We. We were on a hillside area. Was drinkin’ near a cliff, like who the fuck does that? I don’t know. We were seventeen.

“I merely stood up and he lunged at me. He managed to get his grip ‘round my neck and began to choke me. I managed to free m’self and I jerked away. He lunged at me and bye-bye. He fell. Whoops. I just sidestep and he fell. I thought, Well, shit. Now what? I didn’t kill him! I didn’t! Yet...that’s not what these two women thought. So fast forward, I was in prison.

“I seriously wanted to die. I blamed myself for gettin' drunk and Robert dyin’... I thought, Man, ain’t I an awful friend? A bad person. There was no way I was gonna be the same person after that. I got out and I nearly did kill myself. Nearly succeeded, actually. But one person—just one person—came to me and rushed me to the hospital. She stayed with me night an’ day. A year later, I grew to love her, and she loved me. Her name is Amanda Choi. Korean girl. Amazing. Sweet. Kind. When we became twenty-three, we married.

“She blessed me with twin daughters. Fast forward, we found out that I had PTSD and depression. And the war broke out. Blah-blah-blah, death and anger and tears and dead bodies. Great way to help with my PTSD, right? During the times of my marriage with Amanda, I thought ‘bout killin’ myself. You see, it’s pointless to kill oneself. I, in this case, am the bad guy. I killed my friend. Do I deserve to die? Do I?”

“N-no.” I stammer.

“Exactly. No one deserves to die. Doing time in prison is better than death, don’t you agree?” Talyor’s amber eyes glow from the rising sun. “So. Do you deserve to die?” Talyor asks me.

“No.” I look at him, studying his expression.

The older soldier grins. “So, what happened to you? Was it bad?”

“Not as bad as committing third degree murder.” I mumble. “I guess it depends on how you look at it.”

“Hm. Some have it worse. I didn’t have it that bad. Like Noah, for an example. His husband died, his sister died, his dog died, his brother died, and his father’s sick. He just has a sad life. Now. It’s almost time for breakfast. Care to follow me there?” Taylor gives me his hand which I don’t accept. “Suit yourself,” he shrugs. He stands up, whistling some type of tune to a pop song.

I follow him and decide to channel my emotions towards hunger.

Nothing will get better, I think to myself bitterly. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I don’t think I can hope.

But I have no choice but to hope, clinging onto ludicrous hope.

“Joey! Joey! Joey!” Carman is saying, running up to me.

“What?” I ask.

Carman’s brown eyes are wild. “We’re under attack!”

“What?!” I scream.

“Ge’ ready to die-e-e-e-e-e!” says a voice much too familiar: Ted. I spot Haden and Kel beside Ted.

“Great, just great,” I mutter.

“Who says girls can’t fight a boy’s battle?!" shrieks Kel as she fires her gun rapidly.

It’s going to be a long day.