I brought the war, by Callista Womick

Repost from tiltfactor:

The following is a response, or perhaps companion, piece to Olia Lialina’s My Boyfriend Came Back from the War. 

---

I didn’t go- none of us did.
They thought we went, but we didn’t. 

Here. 

We were here.
They didn’t think so, so they screamed at us
and shot at us
and wanted us to die.
“Maluus zebr” they said about
each of us in turn. 

But here it is, I still have it. 

And this- see the dust
still caked into the fibers?
I shouldn’t have it, they have rules about trophies,
but this is from when we were bombed
out of bed-
well, I wasn’t in bed. 

I couldn’t sleep, so I was bare and wet
in the cement shower house.
I knew I was going to die.
I sobbed under one of those
crummy metal sinks, waiting for the walls to cave in
on me or a mortar to drop into
my lap or my crazy heart to just explode. 

But they didn’t and it didn’t and it didn’t,
but maybe I still did. Die. I feel dead.
I’m not a man anymore. 

Please don’t look like that.
I don’t mind.
I’m good at what I do.
I’m a killing machine.
I’m a god. 

This is what they make of us, and they’re damn good at it.
I was in basic with this
scrawny, nerdy wimp from
Minnesota.
Ethan. Ethan Brown.
Most boring-ass name ever.
He’s a sniper now.
He could hit you right between the eyes-
equal distance from each-
from 2000 meters.
You wouldn’t hear a thing,
and then you’d be dead.
How about that scrawny nerd from Minnesota? 

Babe, don’t cry. 

Yes, I like your dress.
But you know I like green on you
so much better. 

White, hell, I don’t know how tokeep anything white. 

I would touch you,
but you look so beautiful.
My hands are dirty.
Yes, they are. Look at them.
LOOK AT THEM. 

I’m not shouting.
Ok, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.
The dress is beautiful. 

Then why are you crying? 

…HIM?! 

THEY KNEW?! 

You didn’t write.
I wrote to you. 

No. 

No. 

No. 

…I remember.
I’m not sure than I can, either.
Not since. 

Please don’t ask
me now.
I’m so tired. 

Who knew that the dead slept?
I always imagined we would torment
the world of the living after nightfall.
Who knew that it was the other way around? 

I’m tired.
I’m so tired.
Here, hold me.

Visit the Last Real Net Art Museum for more works inspired by My Boyfriend Came Back from the War.

SOS

Ok, so. This isn't my usual type of thing. Then again, neither is the topic. The words aren't quite mine, they're as I remember them: tragic and raw. I don't apologize.

I'm drunk as fuck.
Did you ever want to fuck me?
I wanted to fuck you.
I always thought you had beautiful breasts.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I guess it doesn't matter.
I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Don't tell my mom and girlfriend, ok?
I miss my mom.
I never liked my mom until I left home.
I want to go home.
I want to hug my little sister and
kiss my little brother's forehead.
She's a good sister, she's always been
so nice to me.
They're both still kids.
I want to have kids.
I want to put my penis in someone's
vagina and make her pregnant
and I want a baby to come out
and I want it to be my son.
I want to kiss my son.
I want to hug him and tell him that
he's a good boy and teach him to
play the guitar and watch all
the Batman movies with him in
one day and never pressure him
to join the army.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I'm a good soldier.
I follow orders.
I'm infantry: I'm trained to break
down the door and kill everything
I find: mothers, children, pregnant
women, cripples, blacks, Jews, even babies.
Black Jewish crippled babies.
I'm trained to rip apart their bodies
with my bare hands if I have to.
Why?
Because they worship a different
God and because they don't practice
democracy and because they
speak a funny language and
because they want to kill me.
But I don't want to kill them.
Not over ideas.
I mean, why can't we all just
fucking grow up?
What kind of fucked-up thing is it
to say, "Ok, you killed more of
our guys than we did of yours,
so here's this much land."
Why do we need countries?
Why do we need continents?
Fuck, why do we even need a universe?
Why can't we just sit down and have
donuts together and say, "I don't
want to kill you, but I don't want
you to kill me. I'm not going to kill
you, but please don't kill me, ok?
Because you're alive, and I'm alive,
and we both want to stay alive,
so we should help each other
out 'cause we're friends, brother."
I don't want to die.
I want to go home.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I don't know if I'll be able to; I'll
probably cry.
And then I'll die.
In the desert.
I don't want to die in the desert.
I'll get hit by an IED or a grenade
or some other shit and all that
will be left of me is some scraps
of skin and some fucking bloody
sand, and no one will look at
me and be sad or know that all
I want to do is go home and
see my friends and play my
guitar and write. All they'll
say is, "Look, it's another dead
American soldier."
On the back of my dog tags it says
"Lutheran," but did you know
that I can have it changed to
anything I want, no questions
asked?
I'm going to have it changed to Sith
and make them give me a fucking
Sith funeral.
I don't want to die.
I want to come home and see all
you guys and hug my mom and
make love to my girlfriend.
I don't want to die.
I'm really fucking skinny, you should
see me.
I've got abs to die for.
I'm a fucking god.
I don't eat.
I don't sleep much, either.
I haven't slept in more than 24
hours now.
I once stayed up for 27 hours straight
once, cleaning my gun.
And then I put it on a towel on the
end of my bed for inspection
and while the sergeant was
standing there I just passed out.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I'll probably be embarrassed as fuck
in the morning, but right now I
don't care.
Another time they made us run ten
miles at night in the rain with
seventy pound packs on our backs.
When I got back, all the skin had
rubbed off the bottoms of my feet
and they were so swollen that
I couldn't walk for three days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I didn't get to go home.
I haven't eaten, either.
It's the first time I haven't
been home for Thanksgiving.
I want to make a difference in
the world.
I want people to know about me,
and I want them to be different
because of it.
I don't want to kill anyone because
of their ideas.
We all want the same things.
I want to be able to write again,
ever since I've been here I haven't
been able to write.
I used to think that I was so
different.
I wasn't, though. Now I am.
I am not a unique and beautiful
snowflake.
Who care's if I die?
I don't want to die, but they
want me to die, but I don't
want them to die. How do you
say that in their funny language?
Fuck.
I don't sleep, and sometimes I
hallucinate.
Like, this one time I was Princess
Leia, you know in that Star
Wars movie, and Darth Vader
was blowing up my planet and
I was watching and I was
screaming, and I was standing
at attention and I was just like,
"Holy fuck! What the fuck just
happened?"
I don't want to die, but I'm under
contract.
I'm under contract to die.
You don't disobey orders in the
army or they put you in jail.
I saw them put a guy
in jail for rolling his eyes once.
They put him in jail for thirty
days because he rolled his
eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ.
The only way I could get out is
if I'm gay, but I'm not. I want
to stick my penis in a vagina,
not have someone stick his
penis in my ass.
I always thought you had beautiful
breasts, did I tell you that?
I love you.
I love everybody.
I think everybody should love
everybody.
Why do we even have war?
Why can't we just sit down and
talk things out and each give
a little because we're human
and we love each other and
we don't want to die?
Why do we have to kill each other?
I hate war, I don't want to
kill anybody just because they
worship differently than I do
or love differently than I do
or what the fuck ever.
I hate those hippie bastards but
they're so damn right a lot of
the time.
I don't want to be a soldier anymore.
I want to go home.
I miss you.
I miss everybody.
I'm sorry, I'm probably boring you.
What time is it there?
I should let you go to sleep.
I'll probably be embarrassed as
fuck in the morning.
Bye.