In grade school, I ran through the streets with a fake gun, dodging imaginary missiles and lying in wait for unsuspecting kids to pass by so I could nail them with invisible bullets. All through junior high and high school, I bragged to my friends about joining the military. When I first got handed my gun and uniform a giant cocky smile flooded my face as the metal grazed my skin. Nervous joy accompanied my first trip out to the field. I remember the sickening feeling that overcame me as I first saw those bodies infinitely speckling the ground.

The excitement of the idea, the thrill of being new and the anticipation of heading out are gone now. I crouch low, mud and blood cake my once pale skin. My uniform has rips and my gun’s weight is a burden. A million miles, seven months, three weeks and four days separates me from my family. Do they think of me?

Whoosh, a bullet misses me by five inches and lodges into a half-dead man nearby. As I race past, his heart stops. Tears used to stream down my face every time someone died. But I am used to it. I learned not to talk to or care about anyone because it is hard to say goodbye. I run away from the dead man and convince myself not to feel anything.

A stick breaks behind me. It is a boy or a zombie; his gun points at me and his eyes are vacant, emotionless. He targets me, oblivious to the war surrounding him. He is programmed with one command: kill. Just before he pulls the trigger, I recognize him.

His bullet misses and I run. I do not stop. No matter how far I go, or how many dying people I see, that boy’s image haunts me. He stares at me with those empty polar eyes. He scares me, how could someone end up like that? I know why I recognize him and I fear myself more.