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With a pen in one hand and my friends’ dog tags in the other, I’ve realized that this is the very first time I’m writing to you. To anybody, actually, and I’m not exactly sure as to why I’m doing so. It feels odd writing words instead of pulling a trigger. I know that the chances of ever running into you and giving you this letter personally are infinitesimal, but when you’re standing on the precipice of hopelessness, you sometimes tend to do things you wouldn’t normally do.
I thought that perhaps writing what’s coming to mind will help me clear it. These are more or less ramblings of a man slowly turning mad, than an actual letter if I’m being honest, so forgive me if it lacks coherency. I guess I’m just looking to vent since it’s been a very long time since I’ve had anyone I can talk to or confide in. It’s not worth getting close to anyone these days. You sometimes don’t get the luxury of even knowing your allies’ names before you never see them again
The only reason I’m not currently in the front lines, killing and seeing my comrades getting blown to pieces, is because of an injury. It forcefully caused a change in my routine. I’m not sure if I should be thankful or resentful for getting this small reprieve from this endless cycle called life.
I guess I should consider myself lucky to have lasted this far. Not sure how much luck I have left considering that earlier today I found out that this stupid and worthless war has once again taken something from me.It took my childhood, my family and my friends. Everything that I loved and cherished is gone.
Constantly going from relief to sadness, or from anger to acceptance, to disillusionment and hollowness, can do a real number on you. It’s even worse when you go through all of these emotions in a matter of minutes. Your mind and body is unable to process them all at once, and in its desperation to not feel, it shuts down. Unfeeling. Numb. Empty.
But then like a grain of sand in an hourglass, an emotion escapes. Sorrow, fury, loathing. Try as I might to stop it, I can’t do anything but to endure it as it spreads like tar throughout my body. Slow, heavy and black.
So here I sit, in a small and uncomfortable cot, with not much else to do but think, which is a risk because it opens the door to thoughts I’d rather not have. Waking up and having to go through each day knowing that it could literally be your last feels more like a burden than a blessing. I hate it. I hate all of it. Who I am, where I am, what I’m doing. I don’t even know what I’m actually doing anymore. I’ve lost sight of what I’m fighting for. It took a brief encounter with an Ostanian man for me to realize this.
Since the day I met you, there have been short instances throughout the years where I have thought about you, and at this moment, your face came crashing to the forefront of mind once again. Your vibrant red eyes and your smile have both haunted me and brought me comfort to this day. And that’s why I’m desperately holding on to the hope that there is still someone from my past that I haven’t lost. I hope with everything that’s left in me that you are alive and doing well. I hope that you are safe and that this war hasn’t reached you and affected you in any way.
It was unfortunate that we never saw each other again. I wonder what our lives would’ve been like if things had turned out differently. If the war never happened.
How are your hands, by the way? Did you do as I told you and washed them with soap when you got home? I hope they healed quickly.
If by some miracle we did meet again and I’ve given you this letter, I hope I haven’t bored you or taken too much of your time. If you are able to, come find me after you’ve finished reading it.
-Advisor.
A couple of days later, he took out the letter from underneath his pillow and re-read it before folding it in a small square and placing it in the inner pocket of his bag.
His transfer had been approved so now he was making his way to the train station like he was told.
“Is that everything you brought from the barracks?” The military agent asked.
“Yeah.” He answered as he held up the small bag that carried everything he owned.
“Give it here.” The agent carelessly tossed it into a can-fire.
“Hey!”
Within seconds, everything that had to do with his old life would be consumed by fire and turned to ash. Once again he had nothing. He found himself in the same position he was in all those years ago. You’d think he’d be used to it by now. To have nothing to call his own.
With a quiet sigh, he looked at the trash can. Had he known what was going to happen, he would’ve kept the letter on him instead. Or perhaps not. There would be no point in holding on to the past anyway.
He began to walk behind the agent.
He’ll grow to become a shadow, a faceless entity, as soon as he boards the train.