This was written by me in the February of 2015.
I opened my eyes, and stared around me in disbelief. The old city was completely unrecognizable. There was debris everywhere. Dust covered tents, buildings, shelters. The dreary smile of a sun trying to shine through the clouds of smoke. It wasn’t the same. I looked to my left and saw one of my brothers fallen at my side. I looked to my right, and saw another brother severely injured, holding his leg in pain. I looked down at myself. I realized I’d been hit, there was blood coming from my thigh. Why didn’t I feel it? Was I that numb? Would I feel ever again? I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry. I had to be strong. I moved to my brother beside me, the one holding his leg. He was my wingman, my best friend. I reached for my bag, only to find that it had ripped. Everything was gone. I took my shirt, and tied it tightly around his calf. He winced in pain, and smiled. A genuine smile of thanks. He took his knife and cut the fabric of my pants, and made a tourniquet out of it. I lost all feeling in my leg. I shed a single tear, wiped away by my brother. “These things we do” he whispered in my ear. “That others may live” I whispered back. We helped each other up, leaning our weight on one another. “Let’s go help some people” I chuckled dryly, still limping. I wouldn’t give up. We wouldn’t give up.