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Grey had gotten no sleep, his eyes felt dry. Watching the hands of the clock hands tick. Counting down the seconds as they passed. His body hurt, the imprints of the concrete floor placed dancing patterns across his skin. He felt the little rocks dig in. The hour was approaching, he knew it. The kid in the room next to him knew it. The Sargents knew it.

He dragged himself up. Stumbling around in the dark for the last pieces of his uniform. Maybe he could get out of a scolding if he was out there even earlier, folded up his sleeping bag. Removed his whole existence from here before they had to, he knew he wasn't coming back. He found his jacket and let it fall over his shoulders, folding his sleeves up in an attempt to make it fit.

A low hum filled the room. He was forbidden from sound, not speaking unless spoken to. He knew he walls were thin, they heard him, but they didn't stop him. They knew he wouldn't last out there, they knew they were sending these kids to their death. If the kid wanted to hum they'd let him. He bagged up his thin sleeping bag, placed it neatly and headed for his door. The click waltzed around the room with his hum, dancing against the walls. He let the door hand ajar as he reached for his gun, Attaching it to himself, hanging off of his small body.

The hallway was dim, walking past officers, grown men who would be more successful than him. More useful in his war. His boots scuffed against the floor, dirty. Not covered in mud but worn. They didn't leave tracks, but they echoed, he heard the stirring of the other kids, soon to join him. People his age. People that were just as small as he was, fragile as him. He knew he wouldn't survive.

He hummed past the men he should have kneeled down to, they didn't mind. He was going to war instead of them. If anything they owed the kid their lives, their condolences.

The air was cold, it flowed in-between the gaps of his uniform. Stung as he breathed it in. The winter lasted long, he didn't mind it normally. It was grounding to feel the cold air on him, the way it stung his eyes, dried his throat, made the tip of his nose burn. His boots cracked against the concrete, they followed his march. Heavy steps as he followed the length of the buildings, the artificial lights flickered. Dim as he passed each corner. The medal of his gun cooled against his back, he could feel the outline of every little detail burned into his back.

His humming came to a stop as voices started to bounce off the walls. He knew he was at the last place he would experience peace. He couldn't bring himself to turn the last corner. Stood in the cold, he couldn't feel the tips of his fingers. His nose was numb, too. He needed to walk, if he was late he would be punished. Balled up like a little child, like he was a toddler. He held his knees as if they were the only thing keeping him alive. His breath quickened as his reality set in, it hurt as the air filled his lungs. The strap of his gun felt tight against him. He gasped and clawed at his neck, chest, anywhere. Trying to open his tightening throat. It hurt. He could barely breathe anymore, the air just wouldn't go down, it sat it his mouth. He was panicking now, grasping at anything around him. He could feel the tears freezing at his tear ducts. He slumped against the cold bricks, his body seemed too worn to fight. His gun uncomfortably pushed harshly into him.He could feel the adrenaline fading as his chest rose slowly.

Air flowed through his nose and out through his mouth. He choked as the air finally reached his lungs. Nearly freezing them as they expanded. He could see the outline of his breath in front of him. Smokey as he shakily breathed out.

He wasn't going to survive.

He couldn't even breathe right how could he kill another person. He was so stupid, can't breathe, can't eat, can't sleep, what could he do? Could he even do anything? Grey dug his palms into his eyes, he was pathetic. A pathetic little kid, he was thirteen. He should be playing video games, eating junk, not here. He shouldn't be starving, he was just a kid. He unconsciously pulled at what skin was left around his nails.

As he looked down at them he knew he should stop, his mother would scold him if she saw it, but it gave him some sense that he had some control. He had no control over anything in his life but the pain. He still had scabs from the plethora of other times he picked at his skin. It was a terrible habit, picking, tearing through his skin and flesh under it until he reached bone. Letting the blood pour down as he continued to pick at what little was left.

The sound of familiar boots snapped him out of it. He sprung to his feet, practically sprinting around the corner. The familiar adrenaline pumping through his veins until he was in front of a plane. It wasn't the plane he was familiar with, not the civilian plane. Civilian. He was a civilian, at least he still considered himself a civilian. Well, maybe less of a civilian with a gun on his back. Less civilian and more a possession of the government.

He stood in front of the plane, presentable. The air around him started to feel warm, something that happens when you're in the cold too long. It was comforting, he could pretend Layne was next to him instead of the other soldiers lining up. Close his eyes and imagine Layne complaining, he hated the cold, said it messed with his hearing aids. He never understood why Grey willingly would sit in the cold, would call him insane and refuse to join him. Grey would give in and join him inside, sit by the fireplace as Layne would dry the snow in his hair, sip on the hot chocolate. It was warm. Warmer than being at his own home.

The sound of shuffling boots came to an eventual stop as all the soldiers arrived. His attention was dragged back to the lack of feeling in his fingers, he wondering if he would get hypothermia or one would fall off so he could stay home. The door of the plane opened, loud, blowing more cold air towards the boys. It was clear what they were meant to do. Willingly walk towards their end, and they did. Single file. Dragging their assigned weapons with them while entering further.

Grey's ears rung, the constant sound of Sargent's yelling hurt. They barked at him for anything, made him run torturous drills. They paced around the halls as he tried to sleep in he uncomfortable sleeping bags they had thrown about on he floor. The Sargent's seemed panicked which only made Grey more paranoid.

He knew there was tensions going on, threats of bombings and what not, but it wasn't serious enough to turn into a war. A war that he would have to fight, win or die trying. That's what the Sargent's drilled into his head. He barely fit the camo uniform they forced him into, it was far too big. He barely had hit puberty, what made him proper for a war?

They had shaved all of the draftee's heads at the orientation. Matching buzz-cuts, it was terrible in the cold weather. He was on the smaller side of the boys. Standing at roughly 5'3, the Sargent's would dig into his sides during drills, attempting to size him up. Maybe to show authority, maybe he was trying emphasize what he was saying. Either way it hurt.

The 'food' wasn't any better, he had only been here for a little under a month and he had lost a few pounds, his stomach couldn't tolerate the food even when he tried to eat it. It would stick in his throat, leave a rancid taste in his mouth. When it reached his stomach the burning sensation would come, he'd heave it all out. Even the smell would have him dry heaving. He was chewed out whenever he would push the food around on his plate, a grown man bending down to spit degrading insults at him. They'd especially bring up the fact that he didn't fit his uniform, it wasn't his fault they gave him one that was too big. But talking back would get him punished, he'd learned to take the insults now, ignore the fingers poking at him, the elbows jabbed in his sides.

Greylen had always heard that the military was a place filled with good men, those who wanted to serve. Strong men with muscles that could hold a gun without trembling. A man. He couldn't see himself as a soldier. He just learned how to take the abuse they gave him, a slap to the face, a foot to the back of his knee, they'd adjust his posture over and over never satisfied with how he was. He was coming to the realization that no matter how straight he stood up, how well he listened, even if he looked them in the eyes when he said yes sir, they hated him. He wasn't a soldier, he was just a kid.

When a man kills it's murder, when a child kills it's an accident.

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"ATTENTION!" all of the young soldiers attention snapped to their Sargent. "Your time here is at an end, runts! You are to be out back of the station and in the planes before 0200," his tone was no different than any other day, just the bark of an order. Even with the faces of his newly trained privates dropped.

He carried on with orders, explaining the next steps. What these teen boys would be doing next. The atmosphere in the room was sour when the boys were allowed to leave. The normal chatter was now silence. Grey felt dread. He made it to his room in a daze, still processing what he was supposed to do in 4 hours. He layed on top of his sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling. His heart was pounding in his ears, the blood was rushing.

He was going to war.

He knew he was going to war all this time, that he'd have to go fight for his country. But he never processed how real it was, the fact that he was a soldier. Not a boy playing pretend, a real solider. He was going to kill people.

He stayed up, imagining what scenes he was going to see. The thought of him doing it was nauseating. The sight of another soldier, one on the opposite line from him on the ground, blood pooling around him. The sound of guns going off, intoxicated by the scent of gunpowder.

They and him practice with the guns, learn how to steadily aim them. His Sargent had assigned them all a gun during his speech earlier, a gun that each individual would use to protect his life. His was a rifle, he assumed most soldiers got a rifle, it just seemed standard from his view. But actually having it was different, something about it being his possession made it feel like a heavier burden. It was solid in his hands, he had shot it many times in practice, it wasn't heavy just solid. The rifle was polished, probably brand new. He heard it called an M7, if he wasn't mistaken. His hands still shake whenever he holds it. The shots have become tolerable, he got hounded on by Sargent's when he flinched at a shot going off the first time. They made sure he knew he was a wuss and not to act like that again.

He didn't feel like he was a soldier, though. He still felt like a kid, like a dog tied up in some backyard. He had learned how to be obedient, to suck up to anybody. But no matter how good he was, how little he barked, they still kept him tied outside. He was practically just property now, being used as they need. That was just his reality.

He was going to war.

Alone.

The air was stale, hard to breathe in. He had been forced back to his knees while he was unconscious. He couldn't see his torso but he knew it was covered in blood, it stuck to him at uncomfortable angles, supporting the glass and wood splintered into his skin.

The copper smell intensified as he breathed in. The pounding in his head was nauseating. Heavy, repeating drums into his skull. He was too exhausted to beg, to cry, to open his eyes. Even if he could beg, he knew he wouldn't be let free. He was going to die in this rotting shit hole. At least he fought for his people, stood proud on the feild. Or whatever shit they'd say once this war ended.

Grey didn't know how much time had passed A week, a month, maybe two? The lack of windows made it hard to tell, he gave up counting forever ago. He was trapped, the blood practically glued his eyes shut. The only sound in the cramped room was that of his shaky breath. The silence hurt to listen to. He expected to hear the taps coming back, bullets spraying the walls. Anything. Just to be met with silence.

He felt disgusting, covered in his own blood and urine. He was stained with dirt, stains he knew would never leave this stupid uniform he was forced to wear. His humanity was stripped from him. He was just some caged up animal now. Like a dog tied to a light post the street, left to rot. Left to die.

Death no longer sounded like some foreign thing, he no longer felt like death was a lifetime away. It could happen at any time, he had nearly met his fate time and time again. Losing all the oxygen within him, choking on his own saliva. Experiencing actual silence, pure silence. Only to be dragged back, nearly dead.

He wondered if he would get a tombstone, maybe it'd have his nickname on it–no, his mother would never allow that. She always spoke about how much she went through to pick out his full name. His head rested on the noose, digging into his throat. It hurt, it stung, but, it was the only way he could relax. If his mother saw him like this she would tear into him, scold him, speak about the manners he taught him. His father would probably hit him, force his posture to be perfect. Pose his fingers in a way that was 'respectable'. He represented him, after all. His father would try to cover the scars that now cover him, it would be embarrassing that his son couldn't even win a fight. That his son would disappoint him no matter what.

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Grey was only fifteen. He thinks he's fifteen at least, it was hard to tell without a calendar to go off of. He'd been drafted at thirteen, the day right after his birthday. It was snowing the day they came to his door. He had let them knock and knock, he thought they might be carolers or people from the church coming to spread their word. He only gave in when they started calling out his full name. He always has the worst luck. He shuffled through the numerous locks that covered his front door, keeping the chain lock on and cracking the door. Two men stood on his porch. Their faces were red from the cold, they were dressed like they were attending a meeting. Far too professional to be at his door.

"Are you Graylen Wickknox?" The man on the left asked, shifting his gaze from the clipboard in his hands to ajar door.

"Why, who are you?" Grey spoke through the crack in the door.

"We are with the military, you, Greylen, have been chosen for the upcoming draft," they both flashed their identification cards. He clicked the last lock off. Barely opening the crack any further, acting as a shield between him and them. The man on the left seemed to take note of something in Grey's appearance without a word.

"If you'd come with us we can get you checked out, can you come with us?" The man on the right asked.

"I-i'm only thirteen, you can't draft me," Grey's voice shook. The men didn't bat an eye. The air between them was starting to grow stale, he clearly wasn't on their good side. He tried to reason with them, close the door. Every time he tried he would find them holding it open, giving him reasons to come with them. Eventually they just forced him out.

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Grey found himself in a crowd of people, other teen boys. Most were his age, some were older. Men in uniform were leading them, intimidating as they ordered them around. Orders were barked at him, barely audible over the yelling of the other guards doing the same, he was directed to a small room. The light was dim, flickering repeatedly and a woman sat opposite to him at a table, holding a folder and other papers he couldn't make out from afar.

"You are Graylen Wickknox, I assume?" The woman was gentle, she had a warm gaze. She motioned to the chair across from her, hesitantly he obeyed.

"I just have to check you out today, if you work with me I can have you out of here quick and easy," She spoke with reassurance, centering a paper in front of her.

She walked through his medical history, correcting what little files they had on him. Trying to pry information out of the mess he had become. Her voice was overwhelming, she never stopped talking. Not even a second of silence. He could hear the shouting of the men outside, bleeding through the walls. He really wasn't sure what she wanted out of him but, he couldn't seem to satisfy her with the answers he had given.

Shrill sobs seeped out from the sides of the tape around Grey's mouth. The room was spinning, the walls were breathing and he just had to kneel there. His knees ached, tied together uncomfortably tight, his feet had gone numb from the lack of circulation. His head hung from the noose that dug raw into his neck, he wiggled his fingers trying to feel anything in his aching muscles. They fell limp against the rope holding them together, his back felt like pins and needles from being stuck upright in the same position for days. His stomach was empty, the growling had stopped a while ago, replaced by a static, ever growing pain.

The silence surrounding him was deafening, his eyes were glued to the only entrance in this room expecting someone to enter at any time. The door hung on rusted hinges, low and soon to fall. Light bled in though the cracks in the door, it was artificial but it gave him hope that he would be able to see the sun, feel the sun. Warm. His cold skin ached for the warmth just one more time.

Shards of glass, wood, and miscilanious debris surrounded him, he shakily choked in the dirty air, attempting to ground his nerves. In, out. In, out. The air stung his nostrils and throat. He coughed as the air entered his lungs, the sound echoed though the room, boucing back and ringing in his ears. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms. His uniform was two-sizes-too-big and hung off of him, allowing the cold air to dance over his skin. Every shadow and hole in the wall looked like that monsters eyes, paranoia creeped behind his eyes, his shallow breaths quickened as the silence was intupted by slow taps.

They hummed through the walls, almost like a song as they approach. No, no, no, nononono..... Grey pleaded, pleases and gasps of apologies muffled as he recognized the sound as HIS steps. His dry eyes physically couldn't form anymore tears but, he still sobbed, he tried to pull back from his restraints, anywhere that he could hide.

Silence.

The echo of rythmic steps were consumed by the walls. The room was dead silent. Grey held his breath, hiding like a prey animal that knew it was already caught. The lack of sound increased the paranoia grey was experiencing, thrashing with the new found energy in his body. The ropes holding him down didn't budge, barely allowing any movement. The panic set in, he heaved in heavy, unsteady breaths, he knew his captor could hear him could hear him. Grey babbled out pleads from behind the tape, breaking them with sobs and heaves for air. Begging for freedom, muffled cries for mercy.

The door creaked open, the hinges protested against the unwanted touch, letting a sliver of light bled into his sad eyes. Squinting, he could barely make out the features of figure now covering the door way. The only thing he could make out was the uniform he was wearing.

The uniform of the people he was supposed to be on the field fighting. The people that his government drafted him out and left him in the mud to fight against. Dropping him like a piece of trash on the side of the road.

The slender figures face was blurry besides the inhumane grin that covered his lower face and eyes that were only looking at him. Tearing through his being. Looking at him like an object rather than a person. He was like a deer frozen in the middle of the road staring at the headlights of a car that was approaching far too quickly. He tried to pull away as the figure approached. Tried to hide, run, do anything to escape the hell hole he is tied to. The figure stopped in front of him, seemingly listen to his quick breathing. Enjoying the misery he was experiencing.

The figure would talk to him sometimes yelling, sometimes just talking. He could never make out the words, unsure what foreign language he was being berated in.

Sobs tore out of him as the noose tightened around his neck, rubbing on the sore, rope burned skin on his neck, earning a sadistic chuckle from the figure. The enemy soldier had nearly suffocated him more times then he could count, letting him gasp out. Beg for any form of mercy. He would just watch him go blue in the face while barking out lowly orders to his comrades. Every time he would pass out before ever feeling the noose loosen.

He could barely ignore the growing pain in his neck and knees even with the adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

CRACK!

His head pounded as the glass bottle cracked his skull. Shards fell off of him, dancing across the ground. All he could do was look up at the person torturing him. The solider towered over him, standing at double his kneeling height. His uniform was tailored, a sleek black jacket with red buttons covered his torso. The overwhelming red sashes covered him, across his torso and biceps. The flag and language from his home country were sewn on the sashes, proudly. He looked more like a model then a soldier. He wasn't dressed to fight in this sickening war. Not dressed to tie him up like he was a bad dog on a chain. He looked proud in his uniform, like he wanted to show it off rather than be able to blend in with the environment.

Suddenly he wasnt looking at the figures sick grin anymore, instead he saw his polished boots from the side. His head pounded harder as the cold concrete and glass dug into his face, pieces of rock and wood splintered into his cheek. The noose around his neck was now being used as a collar and leash, to control his every move. The figure squated down near the floor, picking through the newly added shards of glass. The soldiers humming echoed through the room as he brought a large shard towards Grey's forehead. He sobbed as the shard was pressed up to his head, squelching against his skin as it entered his face. He felt warmth, it slowly traced the features on his face as the smell of copper bled into the room. He could practically taste the blood from the smell. It stuck to his face, caked up in his hair. The smell made him nauseous and lightheaded as more blood pooled down his face.

He was forced back to the ground, laying in his own blood. He felt pathetic. The figure stood back up, glaring down with those mad, sick eyes, speaking down at him. His heart dropped as a boot forced his head back down, pushing the glass in. He tried to scream but, couldn't. Just let out pathetically small sobs and gasps. It felt like his head was being split in half. Like his skull was in pieces. The pressure let off of his head. His tears mixed with the blood covering his face. He could feel the migraine growing in his head, sharp. All he could do was cry. Pray to a god he knew wasn't real.

Oh, Layne. Help me, Layne.

He felt the boot come down with full force on his back, pressure forcing him to lay in the glass and miscilanious debris scattered across the floor. All of the air in his lungs escaped at once and he felt more liquid warmth pool on his body, now at his stomach. He had lost so much blood he could barely feel the pain. His vision started to block out, his ears rang. The boot moved to his shoulder, pressing shards through the gaps of his boots through his thin, oversized uniform shirt. His vision was almost fully black, he was fighting for air. Choking in dust and blood as he gasped. His other shoulder got the same treatment, dragging heavy sobs out of him.