Boys In a Battlefield

Load the rounds into the magazine.

Take off the safety. 

Aim at the enemy.

 Or what you think is the enemy. They really aren't, of course. 

The real enemy are the ones who make the war- we're just pawns.

 The draft picks us up and drops us off over here; 

just boys in a battlefield. They say we have a choice,

 but we don't; no, not really.

  Shoot.

I'm not really in war anymore. I left with two of my buddies two years ago; one's still here, and the other one's gone. Gone too early- suicide; his inner enemy got him.

  I still feel the gun in my hand, I still pull the trigger and 

               shoot at the enemies that aren't there- only figments of

                 my imagination, half-imagined figures in the mist.

They call it 'PTSD', post-traumatic stress disorder. I don't think what all us soldiers have is classifiable. I mean you can't say what it is unless you have it, and anyone who has it doesn't want to "dig deeper" into all that psychological s**t.

Author's Note

This is what got published in my school's literary magazine (see previous post), I'm pretty proud of it, so tell me what y'all think! Thanks for reading and reviewing.

Reviews

[Craig2591]

Very dark. Probably a hard subject to write about because, just as you said, "you can't say what it is unless you have it".

This feels authentic. I like it.

[K.]

Thank you Craig! I really tried hard to relate, but as I said, and as you said, it is hard to describe. Glad it came off okay. Thanks for reading and reviewing.