She stood behind her, I could only see a the outline of her clothes. But I knew how her face looks-- tear-stricken, distraught, red nosed, the corners of her lips curved downwards-- and I knew she was crying.

She always hid when she cried.

I never got to ask why.

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I don't dream big, especially recently when all I dream of is to live through this.

The fear was constant and brewing inside my stomach as it pushes up bile through my esophagus and I retch, I retch while I pray to the odd God that brought me to war who was the same God that let me meet Sandara.

I retch putrid, vile tasting fear, and I dream of the day I can go home to her and see her cry and hide her face in my chest that would beat eratically for her and not for the fear of dying. I sometimes wonder if she would forgive me for being a coward. Not for being afraid of death, but for not being courageous enough to run away with her. In some misguided notion of patriotism, I have left the only reason why I believe that God is good, and I never blame Him because it were my feet that carried me here with either the constant gunfire and explosion resound in the air or the odd quiet that beckons horrific thoughts.

I never blame Him because horrific thoughts of death are always accompanied with hopeful prayers of seeing her, holding her and fulfilling the promise of making her happy.

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Today, I killed a child.