One way or another, the war needs to end. Even if it means the death of one person, you. But that's alright, you would tell yourself. The depression took over long ago. So what's it matter? This war ends. No matter the cost. (There are mentions of suicide in this story, and a near-attempt. Please, seek help if you ever feel this way, and don't read this is this "triggers" you. This included blood and violence, anxiety, PTSD. Don't take this seriously. This is just a vent and me just kinda going creative. I've been in a bad mood lately, and I thouht I'd embrace the dark creativity.)
11 parts