Not sure if this is going to work. But I’m going for regularity.
We stand, uniform, identical. Hair. Caps. Tops. Trousers. Boots. Packs.
Only I am different. On the inside. I feel the bindings around my chest. I feel the ache of my heart fighting against this injustice. I feel the discomfort of my almost-shorn head.
Anger tightens my fist against the butt of the gun. It’s tip rests on my shoulder. Ready. Waiting.
I am no less. Just different.
The sergeant shouts. Movement in sync. The thump of feet. The clack of guns.
We march, passing beneath His banner. Tears threaten in my eyes as I remember atrocities too awful to name.
Trucks await. The pack on my bag grows heavier as I clamber in behind the men I will fight, and quite possibly die, with. I am prepared for death. My life will serve a purpose if I can kill one of the bastards.
The engine starts and I am shaken by movement. I hang on to the rickety bench, my free hand digging into the rusted metal.
I see her face again. Smell the blood. Hear the shouts. Feel the scent of death in the air.
It is a long journey, to the sands where the cowards hide, to the place where I will make my mark.
The sun sets, its light fading outside the back of the truck. I close my eyes as the truck stops in the darkness. Guns click. A shout. And we move.
I am ready.