Sometimes it is difficult to please a person, and as a person, I have the courage to say that nothing truly satisfies us.
When summer comes, we hate the hot weather and call it an oven on Earth. And when winter comes, we hate the bitterly cold nights and whisper to ourselves, “We miss the summer sun.”
I felt the same way that night. The winter was harsh, and I almost froze to death.
Alongside the biting cold, there were two other companions that night: silence and loneliness.
I was standing in the middle of that dark, frightening desert, with no one else in that place but me and the cold night’s darkness.
When I was a child, my father loved to tell me stories about demons, ghosts, and the scary girl.
He always used to say: “Beware of women, my son. Some are beautiful and we love them, but some are frightening and could ruin your life. If you love someone, make sure her inner beauty is more captivating.” Of course, he would change the subject whenever my mother entered the room.
My mother tried so hard to stop him from scaring me, but he found pleasure in it for reasons I never understood.
Over time, I too found a strange pleasure in his stories—but the terrible nightmares ruined that pleasure and only increased my fear and terror.
So, as bedtime approached, I would turn on the lights.
My father had his own reasons. He thought that by doing so, he would make me stronger and increase my ability to face and overcome my fears—may he rest in peace.
But I believe he was wrong, because I never stopped being afraid of the dark throughout my life.
That night, I was nineteen years old, and it was my first night watch.
Most nights, the other soldiers would take the night watch, and when it was my turn, they covered for me. They knew how afraid I was of the dark, and I was popular.
However, the commander himself intervened that night and gave the captain direct orders: I had to stand guard. At the time, I didn’t know why he was so insistent, but there was no option except to obey.
They gave me a heavy coat to protect me from the cold of the night, but nothing to protect me from my terrifying delusions—the demons and the scary girl.
During the early hours of that night, I recalled the last words of the captain, who was seven years older than me and bore three stars on his shoulders:
“I know you are afraid of the dark, soldier, but I want you to listen carefully. Do not panic, no matter what happens. Hold your position. Even if you see the devil himself, with his ugly, terrifying face as depicted in movies and legends—shoot him with your Russian rifle, and don’t be afraid. We are short on soldiers, and we need you tonight.”
He was restless, which only increased my fear, for I felt that something was bound to happen that night. I clung to my rifle tightly, like a drowning man grasping a piece of wood in the vast ocean. The rifle was my shield and my only means of protection.
But what could I do to stop those terrifying illusions and hallucinations that consumed me? If I heard a sound, I thought it was the devil creeping up from behind to drag me to hell. And if I imagined something moving, I thought it was the scary girl coming to stab me with her sharp knife.
God forgive you, Father—you completely failed to make me strong. Here I am, just a frightened soldier clutching a rifle.
As I contemplated the pitch-black darkness around me, I remembered the captain’s words:
“You know there are dangerous prisoners inside that building behind you. The country is collapsing, and we are doing everything we can to achieve security and stability until it returns to normal. There are those who will try to attack us tonight to free these prisoners. We must prevent that by any means possible. Do your duty and hold your position.”
And suddenly, I heard a sound. It wasn’t imaginary this time—it was real.
The sound of a car approaching. Then the vehicle appeared, though all I could see were its blinding headlights.
I shouted, “Stay where you are!” and fired three shots into the air.
Perhaps those in the car thought a brave soldier was standing against them, but the truth was that I was trembling with fear.
The car stopped. Silence swallowed the place. Then the headlights went dark, plunging everything back into blackness.
But this time, I wasn’t alone.
Seconds—or minutes, I don’t know—passed, stretched unbearably long. I stood frozen, staring at the silent ghost of the car, waiting for what would happen next.
Without warning, the headlights flared on again—and then bullets rained down on me. I dove behind the concrete barriers and fired back.
The gunfire came from all sides, heavy as a storm. A bullet nearly took my eye, but struck the concrete just inches away.
I fired wildly—at the car, its windows, its tires, at everything. My bullets riddled its body.
I was like a drowning man, thrashing in the water—kicking, flailing, struggling desperately to survive, but unable to swim. Sinking was inevitable.
They were relentless, determined to free those prisoners. My mission was to stop them.
We traded fire through the long night. It was a fierce battle—the first I had ever faced.
And I realized I was not shooting out of courage, but out of fear.
I was no attacker; I was a defender. They wanted me dead, and I was only trying to stay alive.
Then I understood the scale of the assault. From inside the building came the sounds of chaos—explosions, gunfire, screams. The battle there was fiercer still. I prayed to Almighty God to protect my comrades and the captain, for I could do nothing for them but pray.
At dawn, the shooting from the car ceased, and I lowered my rifle. I was certain I had killed one or two of them, and I knew I myself was bleeding, deep wounds burning in my chest.
Then I noticed movement inside the car. One of them was still alive.
Indeed, one of the men got out of the car, its body mangled with hundreds of holes. He seemed injured, dragging himself with difficulty as he ran, and shouted, “We will come back to kill you, you scoundrel!”
I shot him in the back of the head, and he fell dead instantly. Even while trembling with fear, I managed to aim with deadly accuracy. Perhaps that was why they kept me in the unit and never expelled me.
The sun finally rose, emerging from behind the concrete barricades for the first time in eight hours. I approached the car and found two bodies drenched in blood. Then I glanced at my uniform—it too was soaked in red.
I was dying. My whole life flashed before me, from childhood until this moment. I was supposed to lie on the ground, remember God, and prepare for death. Would I end up in heaven or in hell? I didn’t know.
But I decided to gather what little strength I had left and head toward the building. I had to die among my comrades, right?
I couldn’t walk far without stumbling and falling, my minutes in this world were numbered. Yet I chose to spend them moving forward. Something strange and fierce pushed me onward—I had to reach the building, no matter the cost.
When I finally entered, I discovered the horror of what had happened.
It was a massacre. Bodies piled up here and there—soldiers and attackers alike.
The walls were riddled with holes, just like the car outside. Fires consumed vehicles and machinery scattered inside.
My heart filled with grief when I saw my comrades lying dead. They had fought fiercely to the last breath, bravely—just as I had fought outside.
But I wondered: had they succeeded in thwarting the attack, keeping the prisoners locked inside? Or had the enemy succeeded in freeing them?
I searched for the captain among the fallen, but I couldn’t find him. My body grew weaker; I couldn’t even remain standing. My time was almost over. I collapsed beside my comrades.
Then I heard footsteps behind me. Someone is coming, I told myself. Surely one of the attackers had come to finish me off. My rifle was still at my side, ready for another round—but I wasn’t. I was dying, and I surrendered to my fate. After all, I was already dead.
But it wasn’t an enemy. It was the captain—staggering from his wounds, his face and uniform caked with blood and mud. He was dying like me. And behind him stood a number of armed men, rifles in hand.
At that moment, I realized the truth: the attack had succeeded. We had been defeated.
I caught my breath and whispered, “Did they free the prisoners?”
The captain glanced at the armed men around us and said:
“They are not prisoners; you know they are not prisoners. Has the illusion we planted in you become so real that you now believe it? You know they are hostages, not prisoners.”
The captain was right. But obeying orders is often more sacred than obeying one’s conscience. Over time, we come to believe that orders are the conscience—and then the conscience slowly disappears, leaving only the orders.
The armed men headed to the cells and opened them. Out came women and children—crying children, screaming women. They cried because they had finally been freed, finally liberated from our grasp. I had known from the beginning that we were holding women and children captive until the men surrendered themselves, but it seems I had buried this truth. The orders had forced me to forget.
Parents embraced their sons, daughters, and wives before our eyes. The sound of gunfire faded, replaced by whispers, sobs, and the tears of reunion after long separation.
One of the women approached us, looked straight into our eyes, and spat on us in contempt before returning to her family.
I turned to the captain and asked: “Does this mean we are evil? That we won’t enter paradise?”
The captain drew his last breath and whispered:
“You know we were the villains from the very beginning. But these are the orders, soldier. Obeying orders made us believe we were on the right side, but the truth is what you see now. Prepare for hell, soldier—because that is where we are going.”
In those final moments of my life, we gazed at the clear blue sky. What a magnificent sight to behold before death—before heading to hell.
The color of the sky darkened. My eyes closed. And then the sky disappeared into eternal darkness.