My eyes flicker open. Streaks of light filter through the tent flaps, they illuminate the faces of the soldiers sleeping adjacent to me. The tent barracks do very little to stop the cold bite these mornings have. I look at the fence, barely visible through the entrance, there lie Russians, strewn about the yard. It's best not to think about them. Today we leave, not only do we leave this camp we also leave the prison that the Russians, with their faces like ours and experiences just the same, have created for us. Around me there wake a few more soldiers.

  well I need to get in more words so yes, this is having a fun time with getting words in so yes hello my name is not for sale and this really is just to waffle for oh my gosh so many more words 500 is really quite a lot. Please accept this people reviewing this its not that hard just say oh wow this person is quite passionate (i'm really not) and they even took the time to type up a real thing not ai well then thank you for the praise really its too much but yeah, if you are some rando reading this what are you doing, you have exams to study for, hobbies to do. go do them. yes. now. work.harder.please oh i'm getting closer, 490 words wow its really coming along and its so closeeeeee, done!

  We fall in line, ready to leave. In the corner of my eye I catch a glance of a young Russian man. He stands at the fence gripping the wire that divides us. It was not yesterday that we broke bread, listened to music, shared cigarettes and yet now we are nothing more than strangers. My mouth opens, my chest heaves but no words come out, I can't say anything , not now. I grip my rifle tightly and begin the march.

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  There lies nature all around, everywhere no matter the conditions, life prevails. A single standing tree among rows of wooden corpses, a fungus growing within a carcass, life is absolute. To be a tree is to become indifferent, if only that were the case for then pain would not exist.

  The marching continues through mudflats, through plains of dead grass, of dandelions, of corpses. The footsteps become audible as a trail of concrete is reached. It leads to a village. There waits a mother, among closed doors, broken windows, empty streets, there waits a mother. Her arms are crossed, not in anger but in impatience, around the corner of a large building stumbles a boy. He can't be older than 11 but his face with its hollow features and empty eyes lies a man. A man i have known for what feels like my entire life, a face worn by the living and the dead. I have broken bread with that face, laughed with that face and cried with that face. Tomorrow I will kill that face.