Original poster
Third on the chopping block: War.

"There's a war going on, don't you know?"

I think that's all I'd say. There's a war going on, don't you know?
Sometimes I'd like to think... It doesn't touch the people I know. It only touches me; the only palpable thing in existence. Everything else is just translucent, evanescent; fickle.

Sometimes I think to myself: There really is no war, is there? It's just a thought, lost among the myriad. No one seems to know but me. No one seems to know that subsequently, I'm a part of it. And one day, they will, too. I'm drafting people in; friends, families, strangers. That's all they are when they're drafted. Strangers. But, somehow, they all get out. Too injured to fight amongst the ramparts, too selfish to stay and fight with a fellow comrade. I also tell myself, people are effected. I'm just too blind by the dust that swirls around so carelessly; a suffocating miasma.

The cripples always come back for more, wearing their scars as badges of honor under their shirts. No one wants to see what hideous marks of affliction ride their backs in their own grotesque way. No one but the nurses.

One nurse per person: A prevention of viral spread. I had a nurse once. I got beaten up pretty badly in this war. Except, she treated another comrade. Broke the unspoken rule. Treated my Lieutenant. Couple weeks later, a virus spread. I was put in quarantine. I was safe. I didn't let her near me, let her talk to me. Never let anyone in past the curtain. Didn't even see her in her dying days. Maybe she's still alive; found a vaccine to keep her well. Perhaps she's still alive in some hearts. Just not mine. She and the lieutenant fail to exist any longer.

Hey, don't you know there's a war going on? Subtle tactics are being used; illegal maneuvers. This war is getting worse, people are getting hurt all the more. A new smog is rolling in. The dust is settling, and it's getting clearer to see at last. But, this smog makes it so hard. Chemical warfare is advancing. Things are so distorted and mutated, it just won't stop. I ask myself constantly: Be you friend or foe?

I was wrong, it seems. People know of this war. Know that it goes on. They just refuse to admit it. They don't want to know this war, it's creator. They don't want to know my mental war. But for that, all I can do is smile and say: There's a war going on, don't you know?