text: The bloody hellish sky screamed releasing a cascade upon us; summoned by the looming crimson moon itself. I suppose it made sense, a vision of tidings to come. Mud; it splashed in our boots, wet our clothes, made hands slippery, caked and coated armor. We marched to bring forth a downpour of our own design, a wash with which we would stain the earth this night. Exhausted, he lurched forth, disenchanted and disturbed with the knowledge of what he must do in the hours ahead. He always felt tired before a fight, drained, as if his mind felt the weight of what is to come before his body. Or was it fear? no, not fear, he was no coward, he had seen fear before and what it does to men. That wasn't what he felt now; he wasn't looking for an escape, for a way out; he was simply consumed by an acute awareness of the challenge ahead. Every warrior carries a beast within; and a wise monster knows to rest before rising to play its game. He was comforted at that notion, a hungry creature that craved the fruits that he detested. Thirsting for blood beneath his flesh, gripping the handle of his blade for him. There was no bloodlust in his heart, no desire for killing, plunder, or savagery. Yet it wasn't his intention to end up the product of someone else's. For this he was grateful, he thanked the monster. It helped him to imagine there was someone else swinging the blade... some-thing else. Something else's feet marching into the fold, bleeding from his wounds, something else spitting and pissing and pissing at the mulched remains of the ones who dared stand before him. Yes, reveling in the spilt blood wasn't his pleasure; but then why did it happen. It was hard to recall, the more he thought about it, the lapses. A moment of preparation, the seething, the chill in his spine and then, nothing; nothing, besides a forward march across piles of dripping mass that could be vaguely described as once human. Clumps of bone and blood mashed together like a clay sculpture; an art critique may call it avant-garde, hailed as a masterpiece for challenging contemporary taste. But he was no artist, but not a killer either; at least he didn't feel like one, or didn't wish to. However, no matter how cleverly one sneaks upon a mirror, it will always look you dead in the eye. The lens through which we see ourselves is cloudy, misinterpreted, and filled with lies. Who we really are can only be seen by a vantage point, to which we, unfortunately can never deceive. "I am a soldier" he told himself, "And a soldier does as he's commanded, there's no pleasure, and no wrong in it." Why then the guilt, the shame; why did it feel so good to take life? When his blade spilt blood it seemed to fill the pit inside him; and it was intoxicating, satisfying in ways that he desperately wanted his ordinary life to be. In truth it was pale, colorless to cast his net and reel in his provisions day to day. The sound of his children's laughter and the passion in his beloved's eyes; these were paltry reprieves in an otherwise tedious and unsatisfactory life. Perhaps it was more than a metaphor, more than something he told himself to steel before battle. There was a demon inside him, calling; a voice from a cold, empty place. A place that peacetime could not fill; not with joy or pleasure, not laughter or love. These were deep stony halls, laden with the corpses of fallen adversaries; feed for the pacing beast roaming inside. It terrified him to realize it, to shatter the façade he saw in himself. But this was war; and I suppose there is no better time to meet the killer inside you. It could be only real friend you have, the only thing that keeps you alive, the only thing that staves away the madness.