I'm a 40-year-old soldier, a man who's spent most of his life in service to his country, full-time on the battlefield, away from home.
I have a wife and two kids—a boy and a girl—though they feel more like strangers than family.
Today, after months of fighting in a brutal civil war against rebels, I was given a week's rest. The bodies from both sides have piled up, but the death toll didn't faze me at all.
After all I've killed hundreds myself. They call me the 'Killing Machine' at camp, and they're not wrong. After all these years in the military, I've taken countless lives, but I've never felt a flicker of regret. It's as if emotions never found a home in me. Maybe it's because I grew up in an orphanage without parents, constantly fighting, never making friends. Even back then, I was feared. As a result the other kids stayed away, too afraid to get close.
I never felt emotions the way most people do. Even on my wedding day, my expression was cold. It was an arranged marriage, a way for someone to get rid of me from the orphanage. I remember my wife's warm smile. I wanted to return it, but I thought it was meaningless to do so.
I wasn't even there for the birth of my kids—and I didn't feel a thing. The only time I ever felt a flicker of emotion was when I read fantasy novels to my son. There was something about those stories—worlds of magic and heroism—that stirred a part of me I thought was dead. Sometimes, I'd even read them alone, when I had nothing else to do.
As I walked through the streets, I paused when a news broadcast caught my attention on a row of TVs for sale. The date flashed across the screen as they wrapped up the report.
"July 27, 2024."
It had been three years since I last saw my family.
After that brief pause, I grabbed a few random gifts—a teddy doll for my daughter, a toy sword for my son, and something resembling jewelry for my wife. I made my way back to the small government-issued apartment, the place we called home. Although it wasn't very spacious it was enough for my family to live in since they were only 3.
When I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the apartment was engulfed in darkness. The silence was thick, unsettling.
'Maybe they're asleep', I thought, though doubt lingered in the back of my mind. I checked our bedroom first— it was empty.
I moved to the kids' room, but it too was eerily vacant.
They must have gone out, I assured myself, sitting down on the worn couch to wait.
Minutes stretched into hours, but no one returned.
After two hours of waiting, I couldn't stand the stillness any longer. I grabbed my coat, ready to search the streets, when I ran into one of the neighbors.
"Oh, you're back," she said, her expression conflicted. "You're the owner of this house, right?"
I nodded slowly, feeling the cold tone of her words.
"Wait here," she murmured before disappearing into her own apartment.
When she returned, she was holding a letter, her hand trembling slightly as she passed it to me.
"Who gave you this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Your wife," she replied quietly. "She left it with me... about a year ago. Told me to give it to you whenever you came back."
My hands felt stiff as I unfolded the letter. Her handwriting was familiar but cold, the words written with a finality that hit me harder than I expected.
"I can't do this anymore," it read. "You weren't here—never here for me or the kids. I've left, and I'm not coming back. We need a life without you."
I stared at the words, trying to summon some sort of feeling. Anything.
I knew I should feel something—grief, regret, anger—but there was nothing. Just a hollow space where emotions should be.
For the next six days, I wandered through my thoughts, searching for a reason to keep going.
I became a soldier to provide for them, my family. It seemed like the right thing to do, like something I had to do. But now...
Now, I realized I never needed the money. I could've lived in poverty. That's how I spent most of my life anyway.
The day after, I returned to camp like nothing had changed, though everything felt different. I went through the motions, but the question lingered—what was my purpose now?
Each day at camp passed in a blur. I found myself spacing out during drills, my movements slower, less precise. It was like my body was still functioning, but my mind was somewhere else—lost.
A week later, news reached us: the rebels were mobilizing again. We had two days to prepare before the attack came. Then, just the next day we were attacked. Although it was a surprise attack, there was no panic, just the same routine of gearing up for battle. But this time, I felt the weight of it—heavier than before.
I was stationed on the front-lines, the chaos of battle erupting around me—gunfire cracked in the distance, the sharp smell of gunpowder filled the air. My rifle kicked against my shoulder as I fired at enemy soldiers, dropping ten of them almost without thinking.
But even as I fought, my mind drifted.
What's the point? What am I fighting for?
My lapse in focus gave an enemy the opening they needed. I saw the muzzle flash too late. A bullet grazed my leg, and the sharp pain snapped me back to the present.
I managed to dodge the worst of the shot, but my leg throbbed with pain, slowing me down. My aim faltered, my movements sluggish even more so than before.
Before I knew it, five enemies had surrounded me. I tried to fight back, but my body was too slow, my shots going wide. I was cornered.
A sharp pain exploded in my back as a bullet tore through me, followed by the deafening barrage of gunfire. I fell to the ground, helpless.
This is the end, I thought, a cold certainty sinking in.
But then, something stirred deep inside me—something I had never felt before. Fear. Not just fear, but the raw terror of dying. My body trembled, and for the first time, I didn't want to face death. I wanted to live.
My vision blurred, and I could feel my body growing numb, but my mind clung to that one overwhelming sensation: fear.
Everything faded into darkness. An endless black void swallowed me whole, and I drifted, weightless, without direction or purpose. Time lost all meaning.
Then, far in the distance, I saw it—a faint, glowing light. Desperate, I reached for it, pulled toward it by some unseen force.
The next thing I knew, I could feel again. My eyes fluttered open, and I was no longer in that hollow void.
Instead, I saw a woman looking at me with a warm smile
CHAPTER END