I don’t know why I joined the army. I honestly don’t. I guess when you have a cold, heartless junkie for a mother, you’ll do anything to prove you’re nothing like her. Everybody said the army would straighten me out, teach me how to be a man. All the army did was teach me how to kill.

The bad thing is that I’m good at killing. I was the best sniper in our brigade. I killed a lot of people. A lot.

I went over there a boy, and came back a confused, broken boy. Not a man.

I was discharged when one of the ‘bad guys’ took a knife to my face. I can’t blame him. We had guns in his face, and he was young. No older than 17, I would guess. I’m a little pissed about not being able to see with my left eye, though. And the scar isn’t pretty, either.

When I got back home, they gave me pills for my PTSD, and sent me on my merry little way. Bunch of dickheads.

I sat in the dark for about three months, until I got a phone call. It was a man, said his name was Bryce, and that he had a job for me. I agreed to meet him.