I hate my life. I hate everything about it. I am a soldier, who is used to “protect” and “save people from harm”. Instead, all I do is kill people. Day after day, blood stains my hands a dark red color. Most of the times, it doesn’t even come off and I have to eat my meals of dry crackers and raw eggs with those blood stained hands. The rare times it does come off, no amount of scrubbing will wash away the memories of dead bodies lying in the dirt, glossy and lifeless eyes staring up at nothing. I wanted to be a doctor, saving people’s lives and not handing anyone. I even had an aptitude for it. Ever since I was a child, I seemed to be born to heal. A kid falls on the concrete and gets a scrape? A bandaid appears like magic in front of them, my chubby little hand holding it out. Someone breaks an arm? Calmly I press a sterile bandage to the wound to stop the bleeding. That’s what I thought I was designed for. What I thought I lived for. But I found out I was made for the complete opposite the day I went to the Registration Hall, where new adults got there jobs. They conducted a health checkup on me, and also a physical examination. An hour later I got the results. I had extremely strong feet and hands, and my body was very fit. Of course, all of that added up to only one job I could think of. Becoming a soldier.