<Conscripted>
I dip my hands, the water turns red.
I rinse and scrub, the brush turns red.
I dry my hands, but they're still red.
The nurses pull me to another victim.
Shot, bleeding, lung collapsed, gasping and choking.
'We don't have the time.'
They pull me away, the sergeant demands the injection.
Mercy.
Over and over.
Mercy.
Few are the Bandages.
Fewer the moments.
'Heal the strong.'
Inject. Cut. Smother.
Mercy.


<Feared>
When mercy stained my every pore.
When peace was buried by their gore.
Rumor spoke of my mask.
Dread spoke of my hacksaw.
Horror spoke of my mercy.
'Red Grim', they would mutter between the shells.
Praying each would miss.
Praying each would kill.
Praying to avoid my mercy.

Harder, however, did I pray.
That I would be stopped.
That command would know empathy.
That the enemy would find me.
That sleep would pale to death.
Our prayers were not answered.

So I answered them myself.
My tools turned upon me.
My blood upon my hands.
Broken, they found me.
Broken, they would not release me.
Broken, they sent me to the front.
Broken, I sought redemption in that hell.
Praying to heal.
Praying for that shell.


<Redemption>
It came to me, by an ash covered face.
Heaving, starving, a day from dehydration.
The messenger gave me a letter.

Well protected. Finely written. Sealed by an insignia.

My friend had heard of my despair.
He wrote of the memories we shared.
Of the dreams and oaths for which we cared.
He knew my guilt was too much to bear.
Yet he offered me freedom from that snare.
He needed my help to save the lives of all there.

Under the letter were several pages.
Formulas taken from the enemy.
Half done, erased, confused, incorrect.
Their goal was a toxin like no other.
My friend asked that I decipher the formula.
Thus we might prepare against it.

Between the bombardments.
Between the bandages.
Between the half hour naps.
I finished the work.
Proud, knowing I had saved lives.


<Damnation>
The treads were slow.
They toppled trees.
Crushed fences.
Erased houses.
The new cannons were in place.
The toxin loaded.
The enemy shelled.

It melted each face.
Dragging skin.
Pulling hair.
Popping eyes.
Drowning lungs.
My work.

My work.
Deceived.
Redeemed.
My friend called the toxin by my name.
My work.
My legacy.


<Summoned>
It is oft said to be like rolling thunder. Distant and deep; powerful and looming; but, nature is beautiful.
Have you not stared at a stormy sky? The dark, rolling sea above painted with dull drums of light?
And do the bolts always strike the ground? Where do they hit? What do they destroy? Who do they kill?
Are bolts aimed by the divine? Are they random and bear no sign?

Load the shell. Two men must lift it. Crank the wheel. Look through the spyglass. Aim for the group. Fire.
The bodies fall back into the trench. The pieces tumble over their brothers.
The air quakes, another shell.
The ground shakes, the bones rattle.
My hand won't stop.
It must be still.
I run to the next man.

I must tend to these men, they must live.
Their breath stutters. Their eyes wide. Their mind reels.
I can't stop. I must help. I can't stop.
Another shell.