The first time I held a rifle, I didn't feel powerful... I felt empty.
They handed it to me like a handshake with death. I was 18, fresh out of high school, skinny as hell, heart still bruised from a girl who promised forever and walked away before sunrise. Her name was Amber. sweet, but she had a smile that could silence artillery. I thought I was her soldier; turns out, I was just a ghost in her inbox.
The base smelled like sweat, gun oil, and burnt instant coffee. I remember staring at the cracked concrete floors, thinking: Is this where boys become men… or just learn to hide their tears better?
That night, my bunkmate, Marlon... very loud, hilarious, always hungry, handed me a protein bar and said, "Welcome to hell, brother. Hope you brought your soul." We both laughed. We didn't know we'd be burying half our squad within the year.
Training was brutal. Push ups till we puked. Fire drills at 3 a.m. My arms shook. My mind raced. But I kept going... not because I was brave, but because I had nowhere else to be. Home was just four walls and a sister who worried too much.
The first letter I wrote from camp, I never sent. It was to the girl who broke me. It said:
"I see your face every time I close my eyes. I hope you never forget mine when I stop coming home."
But I crumpled it up. Burned it with my lighter.
Fire was easier than feelings.
We got deployed sooner than expected. The ride to the border was silent, except for the hum of tires and the whispers of fear no one dared say aloud. I looked out the window, past barbed wire fences and fading city lights, and I realized... this wasn't just about war. This was about me, finally proving that I wasn't just a leftover from heartbreak or a number in uniform.
This was my beginning.