Fractures of War | BANDERA FELLA

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Monologue of a Soldier, On the Frontline

The world has shrunk to a point, a singular focus where the only truth is survival. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the cacophony of war—the crack of rifles, the deep-throated roar of artillery, the screams that sometimes don't sound human.

Everything is disjointed, like a dream you can't wake from. Time doesn't flow here; it stutters, skips like a scratched record. One moment I'm crouched in a trench, mud seeping through my uniform, the next I'm charging forward, my feet unsure if they're running towards salvation or doom. There's a ringing in my ears that never stops. It's like my mind is trying to shield me, cocoon me in a static haze. I see my comrades' mouths moving, but their words are lost in this void. I nod, pretend to understand, but I'm adrift in a sea of confusion and noise.

I catch glimpses of the enemy. They're shadows, specters that haunt the edges of my vision. I'm told they're the adversary, the reason for all this madness. But when I look into their eyes, I see the same fear, the same desperation. We're reflections of each other, caught in a dance too macabre to comprehend.

At night, when the gunfire fades to a dull whisper, my mind refuses to rest. It replays every moment, every decision. Could I have saved him? Was there another way? The questions circle like vultures, preying on the scraps of my sanity. I've started talking to ghosts. Friends who were here one moment, gone the next. They visit me in the stillness, their faces blurred like photographs smudged by tears. I tell them about my day, my fears, the burden of continuing when everything inside me screams to stop.

The offensive pushes on, a relentless tide of violence and retribution. But I feel myself slipping, fragments of who I was drifting away like leaves in a current. I wear my uniform, hold my rifle, but the soldier inside is a husk, hollowed out by the horrors witnessed and inflicted.

In rare moments of clarity, I wonder who I'll be when this is all over—if there's anything left to salvage from the wreckage of my soul. The thought terrifies me more than any bullet or bomb. Because in the mirror of this war, I've lost sight of the person I once was, and I fear he might be a casualty too. As I prepare for another day, another advance, I cling to a fragile thread of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there's a chance for redemption, for healing. But as the sun rises over a landscape scarred by conflict, that hope flickers dimly, a candle in the howling wind of war.