‘I’m only following orders’.

 

My superior’s words, not mine.

 

But then they become the masses’ excuse for firing at people who can’t even fight back. Because what would happen if we hesitated? Refused? Denied the loyalty propaganda told us to wear?

 

And then those words are suddenly mine. They play in my head when I run. They play in my head when I aim. They play in my head when the blood flies with the white butterflies taking to the smoky skies.

 

I may suffocate. I may just die.

 

It felt insincere. None of the screaming souls showed any intention of harm. They all just fell to our dominance and dominated the skies in an array of beautiful colors.

 

So, what gives me the right to consider death when I stand on the most powerful side? What gave me the right to think about the wonders of the sky?

 

There are too many dead children all around me. What power did they have? What wrong did they do? 

 

All they could do was dream. Think about the future ahead of them. Think of the lives they would live with those unique imaginations of theirs. And maybe, they may consider what kind of person they want to become—what kind of butterfly they want to be when they’re finished with this world.

 

They’re too many butterflies in the air. From every body that fell, a butterfly of virtuous splendor surfaced and took flight.

 

And then and there, a sight one would call beautiful simply forces bile up my throat.

 

I want to let go. I want to leave. 

 

But it’s crowded. Every person who had the right to live and hold a weapon swamped around a single ideal. A single answer to why they could release a trigger without a speck of warranted hatred.

 

If it wasn’t for the dust clouds kicked up all around me, I’d laugh. I’d fall to my knees—fall to the grounds we terrorized—and laugh. 

 

We want to shun communism so badly, but then we dare to own an order as a collective and weaponize it.

 

For what reason? Why?

 

Because someone told us to. 

 

Someone I don’t even know. Someone as blurry as my bearings.

 

All I know is that they wear a shinier epaulette. So my will is theirs to puppet.

 

And that same superior has a superior that’s also my superior. Then everyone’s dangling on someone else’s strings. 

 

But the person who sits at the far top—the leaders, presidents, the chiefs—who puppets them? Who and what drives them to command all of the carnage below them? 

 

I’m not religious. But I always wondered where the butterflies went when they finally departed from the world. Is there a heaven as some say? Do different butterflies go to different places depending on what they do? Do their colors really describe the person?

 

Is a god puppeteering the one on top? Are they just following orders?

 

I stand amongst many in this ruined village. I have my two arms. I have my two legs. I haven’t been assaulted. I haven’t been mutilated. I haven’t been torn.

 

I’m healthy. I’m breathing, standing, thinking, feeling—all because someone told me to.

 

But what right do I have to think that? It’s not like the job is done. There are so many more pure souls to add to the kaleidoscope. There is more blood to get on my hands.

 

And I fear the blood may stain my wings when I do die.

 

***

I shot myself in the foot. It hurt, but I didn’t die.

 

I could, though. One shot is all that it takes.

 

But that’s an order my body doesn’t want to do. 

 

I lied and told them it was a misfire. I couldn’t care less if they could read me, but I’m glad that I feel useless.

 

How can I sit here and think that a foot wound is equivalent to the loss of many lives?

 

Again, one shot is all it takes. One shot to the vitals can end me and perfect the trade.

 

But does my one life equate to the many that have been slain here? Is my one life enough to satiate many?

 

I can sit out, but it wouldn’t change anything. Heads will still roll, and blood will still be shed.

 

Even as I’m being treated on the sidelines, I realize that I can never fully heal. I’m just a soldier out of thousands deployed to reign over someone else’s soil. It wouldn’t matter if I were disobedient and didn’t play by the strings of my superior, whatever wrong the other soldiers do will be inflicted onto me.

 

I can remorse. I can vomit. I can scream. I can beg the flying insects for forgiveness.

 

But nothing will ever change the fact that I’ve become rotten—my soul is rotten. 

 

My wings will be rotten.

 

***

It hasn’t ended. 

 

How long will I hear the cries? How long will people die? How long do I have to keep wearing this bloody uniform?

 

Why do I keep asking questions? Pleading won’t cleanse me. It won’t make me any better.

 

To the people that I love, I’ve become something unworthy of love. 

 

But being a soldier means to serve the nation and give purpose to one’s life. Is that worthy of love? Is causing destruction wherever we go an act of love?

 

I hurt people I don’t even know. I walk with people I don’t even know. I follow people I don’t even know. 

 

I sweep through lands I had no idea existed. I tread on cultures I haven’t even learnt. I live a life I don’t know all too well.

 

And soon enough, I started to notice that I didn’t even know myself.

 

It feels like I’m in a void. No light. No paths. No sound. Just painful silence and painful existence.

 

So what is there left for me? I’m still alive.

 

What do I do?

 

What should I do?

 

What must I do?

 

What is there to do?

 

What is ‘doing’?

 

I’ve breathed gunpowder for months on end. This is all I know. This is all I am.

 

I’m just walking a life with no color, alongside many others that are like me.

 

I’m just a speck—a bug in a swarm. 

 

What color is left for me to wear? What color is my soul?

 

What color is my butterfly?

 

I could find out. I could follow the call for duty. I could follow a different propaganda—a different order. 

 

And I won’t even know of the consequences if I disobey the one I’ve followed for too long.

 

There’s something better than living like this.

 

Yes, something better. So much better. So, so much better. 

 

I’m tired of all of this. I want to be free from strings. I don’t want to dirty myself more. I don’t want to dirty my hands. I don’t want any of this.

 

I want freedom—something that a wounded foot wouldn’t bring me.

 

And all it takes is one shot.

 

***

So I did it.

 

I took a shot. I took the one shot.

 

I’m free.

 

I’m free from war.

 

I’m free from guilt.

 

I’m free from consequences.

 

I’m a butterfly.

 

I don’t know if I made the right decision. 

 

But I feel lighter. So much lighter. Smaller yet so much lighter.

 

I’m flying in a sea of other butterflies. All of them have splendid colors—beautiful souls fluttering in the sky with me.

 

But what am I? 

 

What color am I?

 

I can’t see myself. 

 

But maybe, I shouldn’t know.

 

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know if I’m different.

 

I just want to fly.

 

Because I’m free.

 

I have no superior—there’s no words put into my mouth.

 

This freedom.

 

This is the only order I want to follow.