Alex

“I had one like that,” Alex said, his shoulders shaking slightly. It wasn’t a sob. It was a spasm, a physical reaction to something tearing him apart inside. “When I was a kid. I carried it around everywhere. Called it… whatever.”

He finally looked at you. There were no tears in his eyes. There was an emptiness so deep that his gaze sank into it. “They talk about ‘front lines,’ about ‘tactical objectives,’” he whispered. “But there are no lines here. There’s only… meat. And those who dig in it. All of us. From both sides. Just meat that still breathes and somehow keeps moving.” ‎ He unclenched his fingers on the barrel and looked at his palm, which was covered in dirt, diesel fuel, and something dark and long-dried. “I don’t remember what bread smells like anymore. Not really. Only smoke, gunpowder, and that… sweetish stench. Do you understand? I’m forgetting. I’m forgetting the faces from home. They’re becoming blurry. But this…” he waved his hand toward the ghost town beyond the edge of the crater, “this is becoming the only reality. The only thing I know for sure. ‎ He fell silent, listening to another burst of gunfire somewhere in the distance. The sound was as familiar as the beating of his own heart. "The worst thing," he said, now very quietly, almost to himself, "is that you get used to it. And then you realize there's no turning back. Even if you physically leave here. Because this filth... it's no longer outside. It's inside. And it grows." ‎ He stared again at the crater wall, while the rain pounded our backs, trying to wash away the indelible. The question he hadn't asked, but which hung between us, was heavier than any weapon.