This is an excerpt from my upcoming book In the quiet moments when I close my eyes, I find myself transported not to a realm of peace or escape, but to a landscape of unfiltered horror—a personal vision of hell sculpted from the raw materials of my experiences in combat. This isn't the hell of religious or mythological narratives, populated by demons or flames. It's a more visceral, tangible hell, a tapestry of agony woven from the fibers of memory and traumatic experience.
As my eyelids descend, the images begin to form— contorted bodies strewn haphazardly as if discarded by some malevolent force, blood coagulating in pools that reflect the sky’s heavy pallor. The gore is not merely an abstract concept but a gruesome reality, painted in nauseatingly vivid shades. I see faces—some I recognize, some unfamiliar—all twisted in expressions of indescribable terror. The sounds often accompany the visuals; the muffled cries for help that went unanswered, the concussive roars of explosions, the rhythms of gunfire. These auditory fragments serve as a grotesque soundtrack, amplifying the emotional intensity of the vision. What makes this personal hell truly unbearable isn't just the sensorial onslaught—it's the emotional undertow that sweeps through me during these moments. Each twisted body represents not just a life lost, but a soul impacted by decisions I made or didn't make. The blood and gore stand as a testament to the violence that I've either witnessed or participated in, its stain seemingly beyond removal from my conscience. And the faces—those anguished faces—they interrogate me without uttering a word. They ask me to justify my actions, question the worth of the cause we fought for, and challenge the meaning of honor and duty when the costs are so devastatingly high. Their eyes pierce through the protective armor I have left of my soul, leaving me exposed, vulnerable to the torment of self-scrutiny. When I open my eyes again, the tangible world may come back into focus, but the residue of this internal hell clings stubbornly to my consciousness. It's a realm I can never fully escape, a specter that turns solitude into an arena for reliving my darkest moments. And so, I carry this hell with me, a constant reminder of the toll of war, the inescapable burden of having survived, and the ceaseless quest to find some semblance of redemption or peace. Comments are closed.
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February 2024
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