The memories of my past successes haunt me in my sleep.

Running with cleated feet across a grassy field, grinding past those ten yard increments, churning my legs with every contact, and scoring against my foes.

Dancing in the smokey lights of the clubs with the smell of booze and perfume in my nostrils, chasing the fairer sex with reckless abandon.

Stumbling across campus from a party that involved keg stands and premarital sex, laughing at the pleasures of youth and vitality.

Running on tired legs for the Army. First for exercise, then for evaluation, then for training, and finally to make myself more difficult to hit.

Kicking in doors, firing wildly, searching rooms, clearing cities, and feeling that crazed adrenaline rush that only combat can provide.

And the rush, once provided, comes with a price that most pray never to pay.

I paid it.

I bought the ticket, took the ride, and an explosion shattered my spine.

I am trapped in my own body and unable to move or die.

Unable to escape Hell.