• If at all you read lore and fairy tales, then most likely you've heard the saying; dead men tell no tales. Well, I promise you, this is no tale. This, is a piece of history. We were but children at the time. Barely grown and not at all wise. But with those blades in our hands, we somehow became men. Strong men, who obeyed without question. And at some point, we became something else.

    No. We were no longer men. We were dogs in a cage, forced to torture and fight. Blood was no longer a sign that we were hurting someone. Instead, it was the drug that we all craved and destroyed ourselves for. There was no detox, there was no cure, and there was no quitting. It had become a part of who we were; it was in our DNA. The euphoria that came with hurting people, innocent or not, was the same every time. Enthralling, intoxicating, even needed.

    Some of us though, were still human somewhere inside, and questioned what it was we were doing. Was our side right? Was the suffering for a good cause? What of the widows and fatherless children? But those questions were quickly laid to rest with a recited answer.

    The higher power, the gods, demanded this of us. They were apparently at our back as we cut down people. People that hardly looked any different than us... but if felt justified you know? We were promised paradise after death, we were patted on the heads for making our gods happy, and we were heroes in our own minds. But the graves of heroes are not cursed when mentioned, or spit upon when passed by. This endless, maddening, black void that we all wander through is not paradise. And the everlasting guilt that we carry with us is no reward for doing what is right.

    But we knew nothing else. We were soldiers. We were perfectly trained dogs. But most of all, we were children.