The Done Time

He took time to see this through. He wasn't scared anymore of all the things that they kept telling him. He was confident in himself. He knew he could do it. Shit, its just like it used to be. He used to think to himself like this all the time. While he was showering or shaving. Then his mind would go to a bad place. A place where no one actually had been except him.
He saw fifty dead bodies still warm on the ground before him. Several of their backs were ripped apart from the previous crossfire that rained on the now bloody coast. They were wet and drenched in thin red. He walked past them and came across a man with half of his completely blown away in pieces on his dead comrade underneath him. His mouth was open. He could tell from the bloody other half of the lips where they once made an "o" shape. Jesus Christ, this shit can't be real. Not again. Not ever again!"
He wasn't slipping. He wasn't tired of anything at that poing back then when everything was so new to him. He was at the top of his game. In line to get a promotion soon. He was damn sure what he was fucking doing. He got in his car and rode down to the city. He could see the lights reflecting off the side of the fresh paint in a golden way. The city was a red son beating down on him.
He got to the usual place where he did most of his thinking. By then, he had been quite nervous about what he could do. So he stood there looking at everything. The lights. The buildings. And he took it all in. Very slowly and very solemnly. What was that thing I saw. It couldn't have been what they've all been talking about round here. He tried to convince himself that these people were crazy. That it was just something of a nightmare that old wives told their children when daddy got drunk after work; to give them a fuss. However, now he couldn't be sure. He was alone and something had happened and he did see something in that road that didn't seem normal. It had tore them apart. He started to feel sick to his stomach but he kept driving anyway.