The light drops of Vietnamese rain dripped slowly onto Glen’s body as he lay near the grassy clearing. The slumber he took overnight was erratic at best; he woke up constantly, pointing his rifle in all directions with an alarm of instinct.

Glen’s world had been tipped upside down and shaken violently. He knew not of civilization, sweet girls, and football games back in the United States, because now he knew only of the life of war.

The mind-twisting, sight-bending, sound-manipulating, deathly life of war.

It was a part of him now. He had been separated from American troops for three nights and two days, leaving him barely functional and in simple “survive” mindset. He hadn’t found food besides the bag of uncooked rice, which he stole from the Vietnamese brothers. He couldn’t bring himself eat it.

Those rations, which were hardly desirable in any scenario, could have been what one of the brothers would have fed to other in an emergency. If Glen were to let himself eat the food, he would be stealing the life of someone’s brother.

Someone’s husband.

Someone’s son.

Someone’s father.

There was only one thing wrong, Glen had already stolen their lives. He had taken one down with a rifle and the other with fists. The refusal to eat the food was merely sentimental, but it meant something to Glen. He was a man who had lost everything to this war, including his peace of mind, and now everything that small seemed so much more important.

The bigger picture was too vague to even attempt to comprehend.

Everything meant nothing.

Nothing meant everything.

It was the ultimate paradox.

The rain was beginning to pick up, and the small dribble of sweet rainwater had begun to pour. As a small centipede crawled its way up Glen’s neck, inching its way to his face, Glen finally awoke with a jolt.

His breathing had become intense, the same as his thought process. He had dreamed of the two brothers, doing chores for their parents during the day and wrestling together in the evening. His mind took the guilt deep within him, which overwhelmed every single bit of thought.

One man had taken the lives of two men.

One life saved, two lost.

One for two.

When it came down to math, twice as many lives were lost than if he was simply killed. Every life meant so much to Glen, each was so significant, he realized. The lives of the two brothers could be viewed as meaningless by the billions of the world that viewed this war from afar.

They were just two people who died, and it couldn’t have affected them less.

The centipede made its way up Glen’s cheek, and he calmly flicked it off and rolled over to his stomach. Looking back to the grassy knoll, he didn’t see comforting green grass being rained on. He saw burnt land with charred trees flanking the perimeter.

He made his way from where he originally awoke down river, but he didn’t even notice how badly damaged the land was from the airstrike days earlier. Since he had begun his trek back, the smoldering had subsided, but the bodies of the dead could still be seen spread about the black, burnt field.

Glen closed his eyes tightly and tried to make it all leave his memory, but he couldn’t. The image of the dead would always be there, no matter what he did. The lifeless face of peeling flesh. It was there, accessible in seconds without delay. If Glen could do anything about it, he would ensure that no one else would ever have to go through life with that picture.

His fingers tightened around the rifle he held. The horrible images of war plagued his mind, and he couldn’t do anything but go through it over and over like a slideshow.

War was hell.

It took a special kind of person to operate with in it. Glen used to be sure that he was, but now he had taken another look at it. A look from the person who had gone through it and experienced it deeply in every way.

Using action to occupy his mind, Glen arose into a crouching position and checked the area. He couldn’t tell if anyone was around, and he thought it was clear to begin his short walk back to base.

His feet now ached with every step. Not bothering to once take off his boots during the entire time since he had left base, they were obviously rotting quickly, giving Glen even more incentive to make get back to base.

The walk back was very slow, because with every step, Glen expected a trap. The conditions of fighting the Vietnamese had pushed him passed paranoia. Even trees became threats because they took away his ability to see what was behind. He categorized nature as just another enemy as was everything else in Vietnam.

It took nearly four hours, but Glen stepped out of the thick lining of trees before a clearing. This was the final step before he could see his comrades again and it was his final step before being rushed back into a social environment. Surely, he would have to tell this story and return to the line, but that was the life he was living in a war.

He wouldn’t let himself be disgraced by copping out back to the United States.

He would stay, fight on, and make his family proud. Make his father proud.

Glen took a step forward and made himself visible to the men of the watchtowers at the walls of the base. The men inside the watchtowers used binoculars to get an idea of who was limping slowly toward them.

“Is that… Gl… no…” one of the men said.

“It is Glen!” Another said.

The first man looked over to another watchtower and noticed a soldier fixing his rifle on Glen.

“HE’S AMERICAN! DON’T SHOOT!”

The soldier looked down and motioned for others to go see what this was all about. The soldiers made their way over and as they got closer, Glen dropped to his knees.

His body had had enough.

As he fell to his knees and then to his stomach, two other soldiers ran to him and flipped him over to his back. The rain cointued to fall and land in Glen’s eyes, forcing them to wince and close.

“MEDIC! MEDIC!”

Glen finally faded out, and as the awareness left him, he knew he wouldn’t be in any more pain.