I walk my daily patrol like a fearsome warrior, dressed in my combat helmet and protective gear. I point my rifle out for all to see, and the people around me cringe.
But, inside, I’m just a kid from Kansas, or Detroit, or L.A. I’m scared as hell, wondering if someone will dart out of an alley with a deadly weapon pointed at me.
I wonder when that bullet will be meant for me.
Women walk tentatively past me, their eyes cast down. They are innocent bystanders, but all I see are potential adversaries. I wonder if one of them is secretly waiting to blow up everything within a hundred yards.
I wonder when that bomb will be meant for me.
I walk like I know where I am going. Like I am the king of the hill. But I’ve seen one too many of my buddies step on mines, and the sprawling body parts and shrapnel are not something a kid like me should experience. Read More »