text: I try to be as descriptive as I can in this short time of leisure, since we're about to embark on our journy through the no man's land that lies behind our supply trench. I am writing this journal on parchment made from my own skin and with ink made out of my blood. My name is Mitten and I've been living in this hell for about 6 months now. Everyone who arrives here wakes up in one of the few dugouts with beds and every single one doesn't remember how he got here or who he is. The only form of identification is the name that's stitched on our clothing and collarbone, though we don't know if it's our own name. We fight an endless fight agains an enemy who just tries to flee from his own trench to ours. They are all mutilated, decaying or transformed into what is best describable as melted humans, probably caused by the mist that fills their side of the battlefield. One thing every enemy has in common is their lack of orifices to breathe through. Their mouths and noses are just gone. Some of them tried to rip open holes to breathe again but underneath their skin and muscles are just bones that won't allow you to breathe. They seem to be in constant agony. Constantly suffocating. Starving. Thirsty. Most of us don't want to fight but we have to. We have to stop them before they reach our frontlines because if they do, they just melt into the mud we stand in and everyone who would have been able to stop them develops some sort of dry gangrene that slowly takes over your whole body until you're just trapped in a body that can't regenerate and can't die. But the most disturbing thing about this whole ordeal is the fact that our enemies try their best to escape the horror that resides in their own trenches, knowing they will melt into a consciouss pool of mud. The first thing almost everyone tries is to kill himself with his rifle, only to live through his immortality and his inability to lose his consciousness for months on end until he regrows everything he needs to be able to move again. Those of us who lost their will to fight and can endure the unimaginable dread that grows in you if you don't fight, get carried away to the enemies lines by these winged beasts whose grotesque physique drives everyone mad who looks at them. To counteract these abductions, most of us who lost their hands and are unable to operate their rifles will have specially made iron rods rammed into their arms to be able to fight again, until their hands regrew. Every week a train comes by to supply us with ammunition and a thin broth we consider our food, so every week some of us has to go through 20km of mud and trenches, blood and organs to deliver the supplies to the front. Those of us who have lost their hands, and have yet to regrow them, get pickaxes stuck and bolted into their forearms and knees to act as some sort of mule capable of traversing the unforgiving land between the frontline and the supportline. Our day to day lives consist of sleeping for about 3 hours a day, eating our soup, trying to get rid of our illnesses like trenchfoot or typhus by amputating those parts if possible, even if that means we have to regenerate our whole body for months on end, and stopping the enemy from reaching our trenches. It is constantly dark in these lands, except for a singular, red flare that is shot up into the sky every 24 hours and acts as our sun. Most of us gave up on understanding this hell like me so I didn't even bother thinking about the origins or use of this flare. The weather is always cold and wet. At least our trenches are on the highground so most of the water that comes down goes to the enemylines. There aren't a lot of vehicles around here except for the occasional armored car that comes with the train and those flying behemoths made out of cloth and steel that float above us. They are connected to the ground by a few rope ladders. Some of us tried to climb them, most of them fell on their way up because they were too weak or it's gotten too cold for them. Those who made it up there never came back. I am currently waiting for Stiller to wake up. He thinks he found a way to escape this hell by traversing the no man's land behind us. He said that if we want to go home, we have to go back to our homeland. It's absurd but it's worth a try. He hopes we will get back to our lives again or finally die. I think we're currently in the first circle of hell and will just enter the next. I will keep this journal on my at all times but I will be unable to write in it when we go. He woke up. I hope we will finally be able to die.