Shadows of the Soldier

A heart doesn’t beat in a shadow. The color of hair and the temperature of skin is represented only as a vague, black outline. That’s what makes it so easy to kill those that cast them.

Shadows don’t bleed. They don’t have faces of terror that solidify in your dreams and curse you with insomnia. Shadows don’t have names or families. They don’t belong to a nation or have a home. They start only at the rubber soles of the enemy.

Try shooting a little girl point blank after she’s been taken hostage by a desperate guy with a gun. Bet you couldn’t. Not if she’s more than a shadow. Not if she’s more than an object in the way of your target.

No hesitation. Afterall, shadows don’t cry. They don’t feel pain and are never afraid. They serve as a bull’s-eye only, and are not to be negotiated with.

The shadows aren’t like me. The difference is—I’m going home someday. In the meantime this is the idea that will ensure my survival. Sanity is a small cost to pay for the preservation of my life.

The End

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