Eclipsed only by the looming white clouds of promised freedom, in the merciless Salvadoran jungle, the unforgiving sun bears down with an oppressive heat. The light is an unrelenting burden that pierces through my tattered attire and the thick canopy of leaves, casting fragmented, star-like patterns on the ground as if the heavens themselves weep for the atrocities that unfold below. I limp forward through blackened soil, the once-pristine, crisp and clean American blue jeans that clad me are now drenched in the foreboding hue of my fleeting life, I ponder not the communist threat but what medal will adorn my corpse.

Sweat drips from my brow, mixing with the chilling realization that every breath I take in this treacherous labyrinth might be my last. My M16 rifle, an America-made tool of death, rests in my trembling hands, I clutch the cold steel seeking its comfort. My poised finger forged to the trigger, every twitch a loaded question, asking me without pause, "Is this what it means to serve my country?". The answer escapes me, lost in the moral chaos that has shrouded this operation from the start.

At my side stands Miguel, my unwavering partner, the sole solace in this living hell. He maintains a resolute stature, his words sparse, a testament to his ever-alert senses, tuned to the feral guerrilla fighters stalking alongside. These fighters harbour no regard for the pledges of America or the alliances we represent; their sole allegiance is to the pursuit of victory and the spoils of conquest. Our exchanges are stripped down to a language of gestures, our unspoken bond laden with the weight of the unspeakable horrors we've endured together.

I cannot forget the faces of the innocents we’ve lost along this harrowing way, in this dark crusade I have aided in pursuit of America’s interests, I see that all that has been shed, the blood, the sweat, the tears pour by my hand. I think of my children whose' birth I have missed and my face they have forgotten. Faded in their memories, absent in their lives, my dry eyes sting with pain, the burn of salt trails down my cheek.

"They said we should be arriving at the base, we're almost there," Miguel utters, his voice a mere whisper in the enveloping darkness. He knows I am the outsider, the one who has ventured into this hellish terrain, pungent tones of rot and decay dance with iron, filling my lungs with wretched air, I cough and hurl seeking to rid myself of both a physical and moral waste. I nod, my acquiescence a reflection of my acceptance of the desolation that is to come. There is no turning back.  The jungle, an entity of cruelty in itself, seems to conspire against our very existence. Every step we take is met with resistance, the undergrowth clawing at our limbs, as if trying to pull us into its depths. The symphony of the jungle's creatures, once a marvel, has become a relentless cacophony, taunting us with our isolation.

Then the sound of men… muttering and cheering… and I see it now before me, the den of crumbling concrete, rusting metal and shattered glass, the curtain call. I crave the blood of the one we’d come to slay, we reapers of a foreign land, I hunger for our prey's demise knowing that his death would set me free of this nightmare. In the military base of The National Coalition Party, what my leaders call the unchained nationalist hounds of El Salvador, was the man we tracked all this time, General Marroquin. Contemplating how I would carry out my twisted purpose here, the light fled and became swallowed by the night. I looked to see not even the moon guided our path forward, truly I was shrouded in the darkness of my cruel intentions. I knew it would be here, in this forsaken crucible all of humanity's worst instincts will be put on display, and our loyalty was in service to the cycle of violence that has plagued mankind.

I worry not of my decrepit moral state, my dispassion to empathy or my failure to remorse life. Only the mission, if I wish to see my children again, then only the mission- My daughter giggled, I can hear her laughing, was it with me or at me, I spun and turned seeking its source only to realize the battle had already begun. Gunshots rang out like pounding hail on steel, showers of lead and the flash of lit powder cascaded the field over the cries of a tongue I had not mastered but understood all the same. I killed men, women and… I needed not command my hand to lift my rifle or squeeze the trigger, as if possessed by a revenant of malefaction I let loose. I trained not to be a killer, I trained not to be a soldier but here in this land not only my nationality but my very mind, body and soul became foreign to myself. 

I used to run track, long distance, and during those runs I dreamed of my future, that I could shape lives in ways that would bring light to the world. I studied in halls and libraries uncovering histories and philosophies that would serve me in my hunt for truth and justice. I fathered my children and when I looked into her eyes I believed that I would be someone she’d be proud of.

Sweat drips from my brow and I know I have not yet taken my last breath. I open my dry eyes, they sting with pain, the burn of salt trails down my cheek. I look down and I cannot tell if the crimson in my American jeans is of my fleeting life or of other lives lost. I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror of an armoured truck, its camouflage proving no use against our aim, the warped sheets riddled with bullets stink of burning flesh and I see that my face is not my own. I have forgotten my face. The fighters cheer, Miguel looks to me with optimism and glee, he sings but I do not hear his song. The mission was successful, the general is dead. His corpse, beheaded and dragged through the ichor soaked soil and over chilling soulless piles of meat to be put on display as the hounds bark and howl.  Blood, sweat, tears—these are the currencies of darkness, and we are its reluctant collectors.