“Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are just targets, nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back” (Heraclitus). Throughout my service, I met many of the Ten, more of the Eighty, a promising amount of the Nine, but only a handful of the One. Emanating a palpable aura, he was fearless, the epitome of strength. Commanding respect through sheer presence alone, eyes a shade of blue comparable only to that of an arctic glacier, one glance piercing every fiber of my being. He was the Warrior; my reverence of him revealing the boy I was. Men baptized by fire began to dismantle this newly uncovered boy. Under their stewardship, the foundation of a man slowly emerged. Men who have peered under Death's veil and refused to succumb to fear. They were Fighters; Death was no longer a stranger. Walking by their side as an ally, a friend. I was merely a Target, a part of the Eighty, an unwelcome liability under their charge. “You are going to die!” The repetitiveness with which I heard this, coupled with the vast range of its context, was the most influential yet subtle piece in my transformation. Broken down physically, the tearing pain and searing heat in my muscles. Air laced with the pungent smell of lactic acid draining from my pores. Pushing to the point of no return, gritting my teeth with so much force, I thought they would shatter. Tears running down my cheeks as my hands desperately tried to gain traction in the mud. Quitting was not an option. For every failed push up, “You are going to die!” Every question to which I was ignorant: “You are going to get your Brother killed!” Finally, I gave the correct response, only to be greeted by a myriad of macabre descriptions of my imminent future. Vivid narrations of my death and dismemberment painted in gore and brutality. In those first months of battle, Death became an acquaintance, growing familiar as I made the introductions of evil men. Our first encounter as adversaries is forever etched on the forefront of my memory. Drowning in anguish, I embrace the empty shell of a man I had grown to call my Brother. Fumbling the unnatural weight of his tattered body, I carry him from the chaos. His vessel lay vacant, Deaths' contract now finalized. With a single bloodstained hand print he signed over his life. The window forever stained in the crimson ink of his heart. Fear latched onto me as I let him go, becoming my restraint, an obstacle to surpass, in my relationship with Death. Granted, two weeks away from this hostile land I return to the place of my birth. Explicit contrast is the only way to articulate my feelings as I wandered Phoenix, my childhood home now foreign. Only days before, air saturated with the smell of burning rubber so thick you could taste it. Sirens foreshadowing impending explosions and subsequent screams. Roads laden with buried demons, prepared to burst forth ferociously in metal and fire. In that first week, however fleeting, hope crept feebly into view. I had survived; I was alive! Hope's frail presence was incapable of distracting me from the ominous, blackened silhouette that loomed in the distance. With each passing day Death's weighted shadow extended further over me. Shrouding me in darkness, until he was all that remained. I have never, nor will I ever, cry as inconsolable, as I did in the days before returning to war. Fear crippled me, made me weak. It would be the death of one of my brothers. Nowhere to run, unable to hide any longer, I delved into the depths of my fear. Through introspective reflection, I found him, Death. He stood upon everything I was afraid to lose. Exposing the parts of me still clinging onto life, his veil began to fall. Fear dissolved, as I deciphered the truth in his face, strength began to permeate my essence replenishing the void. At this moment, I accepted his truth. That I was dead. I was going to die. Certain in Death's dogma, I sacrificed my communion with life, burning this belief into the core of my convictions. Fealty to this ideology was the catalyst in my transformation. I became fearless, strong, my presence commanding respect. Awaking revitalized, I returned to war with an ally by my side, Death. My companionship with him cultivated the mental fortitude, I would rely on for survival, in the multitude of battles that ensued. Men followed me to the depths of hell in the years to come, time and time again, knowing I would bring them back. I am the Warrior The battle is over for me, no more will this Warrior escort men from the depths. Disregarded is the Warrior in peace, an unpleasant reminder of the violence of men. Unsealing these experiences continues to shatter my attempt to create meaningful connections. Receiving blended looks of pity and disgust, I fruitlessly endeavor to reconnect to life. How do I learn to live again, when I am already dead?