Winning a war should taste like home. The sweetness of freshly cooked croissants and the warmth of hot chocolate should be brewed upon our victory. But I can taste something sour on my tongue as if our victory is a punishment, like blood on my hands - there is none.

Instead winning a war tastes like lemon, a sour tinge feeling that wants to rip my heart apart because I took lives. Killing people where blood stains, but here lemon stains my taste buds punishing me. This punishment isn’t enough. I should be dead for taking somebody’s life, like god says an eye for an eye. I got a life for a lemon, and what do I do with a lemon in my hands? Make juice?