Brother

Not home anymore

"It's a march to extinction with your god in step
It's his name in your mouth; it's his cross on your neck"

&

"And he's panting the 'Our Father' in staccato spurts
Now that's his automatic rifle and it tells no lies
It's his truth in your stomach, it's no alibi
But the trouble lies on the other side
With an equal truth prepping for his holy night
He sees the crescent and the star blink in the virgin sky
And hears the call of milk and honey from the afterlife
And as he eases to the checkpoint, he is calm and sure
It's collateral damage; it's the cost of war
It's another bag of bones for the Gods to sort
It's just another bag of bones for the Gods to sort"

&

"It's the facts worth facing, faced way too late"

Another Bag Of Bones by Kevin Devine.

I used to pray.
A lot, for anything and everything. When you lose that feeling of a higher power, something happens to you. I'm not sure how to explain it. In a way, this life I'm living seems pointless. Once we die, we are gone and never to be found again. We will rot with the Earth and have no afterlife.
My mother was sure upset to find out that I didn't believe in anything. She had stared at me from the kitchen. I refused to go to church, and there she was, praying her heart out.

"Dear lord, hear out our helpless son."

I want to laugh in her face. A God could never save me. I am ruined. I am ruined like the trash you make, now that you've used it.

Another war, another day. I'm a soldier; I was drafted as soon as I turned 16. It's funny to think that a 16 year old church boy killed people. For some reason, they always believe that a few mothers' sons will be enough. But it won't. We will lose, people will die. Soon enough I'll be thrown out. Soon enough I'll be dead.

Ever wonder what death can do to you? Yeah, me too. Sometimes I believe that being dead is what I want. Sometimes I'm not sure. But it's not like I have a choice. No one has choices. Not in this world.

The wars started because a limit in resources. Both The Regrime and The Civils were running out of food, both of all their people hungry. Ready to do anything. So The Civils came in, raided what all we had. It left many of us to die of starvation.
But it didn't stop there. We fought back. Screaming and attacking. Yet the wars never stopped. We're always fighting to survive.

We are home again, the surviving soldiers. There's not much of anyone left. About twenty or thirty came back. Some we can't even count as survivors because of what they've seen. It's messing with their head.

I believe that I'm like that, not really right in the head anymore. Not after what they did to me, at least. The person who left for war is different from the person who came back home. I don't even know who I am anymore. I can't know.

My brother just turned 16. He'll be drafted. I don't want it to happen, I'm not for sure he'll make it. He shouldn't be drafted. None of them should. They take everyone away to fight for a cause they don't even believe in.

I'm in the kitchen now. My mom is ready for church. Ready to pray for me, the deaths of everyone, our health, the weather, everything. I want to tell her that her praying before did nothing, why would it now.

But that's mean. It's a terrible thing to take hope from someone. Look what it did to me.

My dad stayed home for me, though. So did my brother.

"Hey, Jacobson." I say to my father. He smiles. His bald head glares from the only source of light we have, a candle. He's dirty, worn and torn but still manages a smile. I admire him, and it kills me to know that I'll never be like him. His beard is bushy, grey with a few brown hairs.