I Am Eighteen

I am eighteen. I am still a boy. My skin is soft. My muscles are new. But to them, I am a killer.
Born and raised in a tiny village in Vietnam, there was never any trouble. The days of my youth are only a dream now, but a dream I sleep for. Now, as I have grown up, our village is no longer a safe haven, but an unwelcome place. The soldiers from America have come, barring weapons and mouths as straight as a blade. They don’t like us, I can see it in their gray eyes, the way they yell and demand my family and friends, and it frightens us even in our sleep. Now that I am eighteen, I fight alongside my fellow villagers for the Viet Cong. Our goal is simple. Kill the Americans, save our people.
The fighting scares me continually, and I can still hear the cries of those I’ve killed. It comes to me in my sleep, late at night when all is supposed to be quiet, but it’s not. It is never quiet here. There is no peace in Vietnam anymore since the Americans and British have invaded. Sometimes I think of my parents and their morals they’ve bestowed on me, and then I feel sad because we have no morals in war. We do not think what or how or when or why, we just destroy. I am eighteen. I have blue eyes, as cold as a river in winter, filled with blood from people I have killed.
One day, in the middle of a hot summer, I am outside my village with some Viet Cong soldiers. It is a relief to not be in the jungle, but to have a moment’s rest. We have just ambushed a group of American’s; you can see it in our eyes. The blood still on our finger tips, the quilt pounding in our living hearts. I spot a young girl, remembering her from my own village. She was my brother’s friend, just eight years at the most. Her pale skin has yet to see much sun, and her bright eyes are refreshingly pure. As I watch her selling items in a blue cotton dress, I notice what they are. Bombs. The soldiers swarm around her, purchasing the deadly objects with no question. My heart races quickly, without a chance to warn her, but I hear noises from behind the jungle. Men, wearing everything they can carry, load their weapons and open fire. The Americans are back from the ambush, our own soldiers running for cover. Red and green blurs, hands covering heads, eyes not dare to look up. There was no time to scream.
My head lifts up from between my knees, cheekily looking behind me. That little girl is gone, not a trace of life to see, carefully standing up I glance at the scene. Below my stained shoes I notice a piece of blue clothe. Picking it up gently, I smell the familiar scent of everything I lost.
I am eighteen. I am still a boy.