text: We are connected, you and I. I never knew you, but we are connected. I waited for you. I chose you. It could have been someone else. Just five more seconds and you would have passed, but you came around the building and I knew. It was the itch. The itch that’s deep inside. I’m sure you’ve had it yourself. The kind of itch you can never dig out. Trust me I tried. The first time I got the itch it felt like my stomach was being eaten from the inside out. So I took my knife and dug into my own flesh. But the deeper I went I realized I couldn’t reach it. When they found me with the black hole in my stomach, they thought you did it to me. They told me I was a lucky bastard and said I’d have a chance to get even with you soon enough. They told me I would live. So they patched me up and gave me pills, but I knew the itch would never go away. Now it calls me, guides me. It guided me to you. Please don’t think I’m a monster. I’m sure you would have done the same, wouldn’t you? I didn’t order you to show up when you did. I just do what I’m told, by the itch, and the itch chose you. I let ten of you pass from one wall to the other. I watched as the first of you leaned around the corner. I could have sworn you saw me, but you didn’t. The first of you leaned around the corner and gave a hand signal and you all came pouring out like ants from a hole. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, blame the signal man, not me. He gave you that red star on your chest just as much as me. The red star. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to get a red star. I used to think about it all the time, but after a while I realized making it this far meant I never would. I still think about it, sometimes. As I was saying, you came around the corner, and as soon as I saw you, I got the itch. What’s that? Why? Speak up, man! Why did I get the itch? If you have to ask that question, clearly I was wrong and you never had it. In short, I don’t know. I know that isn’t the answer you want to hear, but it’s the truth. I don’t know why the itch chose you. You look like a decent enough fellow. I didn't hate you when you came around the corner. Actually, I get the sense that we are similar. But you came around the corner, and I didn’t feel much of anything, just that small seed of fear. Surely, if you don’t know what the itch is, you have to know the fear. Even now, with the red star on your chest, I still fear you. I know, it sounds stupid, but I do. Because I could be you. Because we’re connected you and I. Someday, someone might get the itch, and it will be me that gets a red star. But this time, you came around the corner, and I waited. I know you want that red star to mean something. You hope that in some small way, that badge on your chest will make a difference, and you know what? I think it does. Maybe not in the final outcome, but inside, yes, I think it does because you can claim it as your own. You earned it. But not just for yourself. If this whole thing was only for ourselves, we wouldn’t be here, am I right? But we are connected, I know that much, and that’s how I know it means something. Well, I better get going. Say, what’s that? That in your hand? May I? Oh wow, what a great picture. She, wow, she is really beautiful. And look at those kiddos. Hey their Chief you have a helluva good looking-oh, Jesus. Man, I’m sorry. Here, keep them in a safe place. Take them. Common take them! Alright, look, I’ll just tuck them right in your pocket there. Man, don’t look at me like that. I told you it wasn’t my fault. Weren’t you listening to a single word I was saying? We’re connected. I waited just to be sure! The itch told me! Stop staring at me you sick bastard! I swear I’ll put another red star right in your damn forehead! Stop staring at me! *Pop!* It’s not my fault! *Pop! Pop! Pop!* *** The dead soldier’s face was unrecognizable by the time they stopped Private Anderson. The stock of his rifle was implanted in the side of the enemy soldier’s skull, but even without that final blow, Anderson managed to fire off a full clip into the man’s face and chest. As recalled by Lieutenant Jeffries, Private Anderson was being restrained by three other soldiers when he arrived on the scene. The private’s face had gone pallid in the struggle, his lips blue and twisted into a hideous form. And he was screaming. Jeffries had heard plenty of screams in war, but nothing so primal, so pure. It was like Anderson spewed a patchwork quilt of sorrow, horror, and darkness over the men, and when it settled it found every nerve in their bodies and plucked it like a guitar string. Watching him lose it, they all felt cold. Because they knew it could be them, that they were connected. They could be drug away with spittle flying from their mouths screaming, “the itch!” Just like Anderson.