Carman notices that I’m rubbing my temples and he asks me if I’m okay. But because of my headache, I snap at him to fuck off. Carman looks annoyed and turns away from me. I should apologize but I don’t.

I press the heels of my hands against my temples. A growl rises in my throat as a wave of nausea burns rises in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, just wishing that this headache would go away, just wishing that this war would end. An end…I want all of this to end.

I stifle a groan as I drive the heels of my hands into my temples, my stomach churning. I’m guessing that I’m feverish and probably ill but what can I do? Lie down? Take an Advil and pray that it'll go? Maybe take a nap and wake up feeling better? No. I can’t do any of those things. Not during a war. People are dying and are in far more worse pain than me. So I have no choice but to suck it up and deal with it.

“Man up”, was what my father used to say when I complained about feeling unwell. “Only weaklings bitch about pain.”

Greenway dismisses us and I walk away, towards a fallen tree. There, I find a dead man. I don’t want to go any closer but curiosity gets the best of me and I move closer.

I regret it instantly.

The eyes are torn out and the jaw is crudely unhinged. The neck is fringed with blood with an arrow sticking out. The temples are bashed inwards, the chest has a knife stuck in it which is also caved in, the legs and arms are broken. God, that looks painful.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I try to avoid looking and stepping on the body. That poor man. Died quite painfully. I suppress a shudder as I continue down the path, nearly screaming out when a bomb bursts right in front of me. Thankfully a small one so it doesn’t do any damage to me. Except startle me.

Adrenaline floods my body as I make sure to avoid people running into me who are screaming their heads off, trying to avoid bullets, grenades, or even swinging blades.

I want to die. The words are a whisper in the back of my mind.

I want to die. The words repeat themselves like a broken record.

I want to die. The words suddenly have a different meaning: I want to escape this hellish place, want to lie down and pray to a god I don’t believe in because maybe yes, all my pains will be washed away.

Who am I? To be here, standing, holding Fili Mi? Who am I? To be here, standing, as a soldier? Who am I? To be here, standing, with no parents? Who am I? To be here, standing, scared that I might die? Who am I? To be here, standing, watching as others die? Who am I? To be here, standing, blinded by what the world has created? Who am I? To be here, standing, wondering if I still got a brother? Who am I? What am I? Where am I?

The headache fades, a lingering memory of pain as I steady Fili Mi at the chest of an enemy. I watch as his gray eyes widen, lips forming an O as he cries out, begging for me to not kill him. I hear the ear shattering bang as the gun goes off, ripping the life out of the man. Blood goes everywhere and a wave of nausea ripples in my throat as I force myself to swallow, to breathe, to think. I tell myself that it’s all good as I hurry off, scarcely able to dodge a bullet that tears at my sleeve.

It's war. There’s no “good guy”/“bad guy”. It’s all for yourself. It’s a devil’s playground as you struggle between life and death. There’s no turning back. Once you’re at war, it’s game on.

Tears are shed, blood paints the battlefields, bodies litter the ground, hearts are broken—you can’t win. No. Even though you defeated the “bad guys”, you can’t forget the feeling of being close to death.

I want to die. Yes, I do. But I can’t. I don’t think my mom would be happy if I died. Just think about her, Joey. Think about her smile, her laughter, her presence, her hugs, her kisses, her love for me.

I’m so sorry, Mom...I’m fighting back tears as I sigh heavily, leaning against a tree. I tried so hard to be the best I can...but how? You’re gone...why did you go? Why? I don’t understand why you had to go...

Firing Fili Mi, the people cry out. A woman with red hair snarls at me, aiming her gun to fire but I shoot her straight in the forehead. She dies and the other two cry out in alarm. They try to shoot at me, but they don’t succeed. I finish them off.

I’m not a violent person. Never was. Well, usually. That changed a lot when I entered the war to fight as a soldier. Now I'm doing what I must do to stay alive. And in order to stay alive, I must fight which involves taking the lives of others or I'll lose mine.

And suddenly I’m knocked to the ground, Fili Mi ripped out my hands. I can’t speak since rough hands cover my mouth, preventing me from speaking or screaming. I growl low in my throat, trying to shift myself away but the person merely sits on me, laughing.

“Hi darlin’, wanna have some fun?”