Avdiivka basement & a stranger wearing my face, carrying my name.

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I hear it again—the distinct, ominous roar of an enemy Su. Every time that jet screams across the sky, it's like a knife twisting in my gut. I'm here, in this shattered husk of a home, not by choice but by necessity. It's not my house, but the remnants around me—a child's discarded toy, a photo half-burned—whisper stories of a life that once was. Did the kid make it out? The thought haunts me, gnawing at the edges of my already frayed sanity.

The sound of a missile launch is a trigger. Not just the physical flinch, but something deeper, a primal fear that freezes my blood. When that KAB comes howling down, reality fractures. It's not just the explosion, the devastation it brings; it's the anticipation, the waiting, that shreds my nerves. The fear is palpable, a thick presence in my throat that makes it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.

When the KAB (guided bomb) lands, the devastation it brings is unimaginable. Entire blocks, homes like mine, are reduced to rubble.

I avoid looking my brothers in the eye. There's guilt, shame... I've seen too much, done too much. But in the moment the bomb hits, our eyes lock. There's something there—fear, yes, but also a defiance, a refusal to be broken. It's what keeps us going, this shared flame of resistance, flickering but never extinguished.

The ground shakes, and dust chokes the air. Somewhere, distant yet terrifyingly close, screams pierce through the aftermath. The radio crackles to life—300! Help!—a statistic that's become all too familiar. Each code 300 announced, is a blade twisting in an already festering wound.

This war has blurred the lines between what's real and what's conjured by my frayed mind. At night, when the gunfire fades, the battle rages on in my dreams. I'm trapped in a cycle of reliving the horrors by day and battling them in my sleep. It's a relentless assault on the psyche, a war on two fronts where peace seems like a concept from another lifetime.

Yet, I endure, driven by a flicker of hope or perhaps the stubbornness to not give in. But at what cost? With each passing day, the line between the soldier I am and the person I was fades, leaving behind a stranger wearing my face, carrying my name.

Reflections on pain, fear, and struggle have become my constant companions. What I've seen, the choices I've had to make—there's no escaping the memories. They're etched into my soul, a permanent reminder of the darkness that war breeds. And in the quiet moments, when the dust settles and the adrenaline fades, I'm left with the haunting question: Who have I become?

I find myself lost, struggling to cling to the fragments of who I used to be, even as I brace for the next wave of terror that the skies promise to unleash. The line between reality and imagination blurs, creating a world where fear, pain, and the struggle to endure define my existence.

We are but a flicker of light in the darkness, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by shadow. And we will continue to fight, to stand, to endure, for as long as we draw breath. Slava 🔱