I'm in the frontline, hiding in trenches, explosions everywhere. They took part here involuntarily; drafts they call it. No one wants to be here; everyone wants to go home. When it's all over, when it's just begun.
50 meters of land, politicians sitting in their comfortable sofas. No time to think about it right now. My right ear has been blown off and I'm bleeding, cray bandage applied. It stings as it were 100 wasps.
The General and his troops are next to me, camouflage suits. Rushing on to attack the seemed to be fearless enemies. Corpses lying lifeless on the ground. The ground is the empty canvas, the gun is the artist, and blood is the paint.
Dreadful hours pass by, calls going back and forth to base. "Do you copy?" Yes, my left ear still has its hearing. A beautiful scene has been painted on the canvas. Serene views, our soldiers have teethy smiles, smiles of disaster, smiles that mean everything is over.
The General rushes in, 20 meters to push. He throws a grenade; the explosion blinds me for many seconds. Blood is splattered across my face. Our soldiers scream a scream of terror and fright, the screams that you won't be able to forget for the rest of your life. The Generals body lays like a ragdoll on the field, his head lays detached, next to my feet. Eyes rolled back, blood spurting out from his neck.
Trauma.
In the fit of rage, I rush on the enemies, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. All shots on target, all dead, 20 meters captured. I became the artist. Our soldiers plant the flag on the hill, we now have 50 meters more in our country, a fantastic reason to base a war on.
I salute for my fallen friends and the fallen soldiers of the other country.
Humans fighting themselves.