  I watched a man die last night, and that sort of thing is never easy, fictional reader. He was cut down in a hail of bullets before I could bring my weapon to train, and as such stood voyeur to the slaughter. That's life in the streets, action to reaction and back again. The dead never look real, possessing more the visage of wax figurines then the shell of departed souls. Lopez and I fumbled with the body bag in the dark. Fresh dead are supple, making them easy to care for. Initially I wanted only to secure the AK-47 and leave the body behind, but was ordered otherwise. Once he was loaded I grabbed the sandals and scarf which shook off him as he was riddled by fire, placed them at his feet, and zip the bag shut. The glory hounds who claim to love death but who took no part in the shooting were quick to scoop him up victoriously. Recalling the seventh corporal work of mercy, bury the dead, I felt ashamed. It is a Christian's duty to care for the deceased, not leave them like trash in the streets.
Soldiers often make jokes after they have killed, however physically confronting the fruits of one's horrific labor often requires such devices. The man made a sacrifice for his way of life, whose contestation occurs nightly. Soldiers die in war and this is inevitable, fictional reader. The act itself does not move me to regret, after all he was the aggressor, not we. It was my conduct following said event that stood as disappointment. If one must murder for political gain one should at least have the decency to clean up afterwards. The dead deserve more then we have given them, but I am new to war, so have forgiven myself. "Only the dead have seen the end of war" - Plato 
