Source: Pixbay
As the war took a short nap for the soldiers to sneak out of the trenches and tight bunk beds I returned home. Carrying nothing with me but three dog tags I promised to deliver to my neighbors. I didn't carry mine with me, I left it behind. Maybe I threw it in a fit of panic when I heard a light bulb explode, maybe I dropped it in the water. I don't remember, all I know is I no longer carry my name with me.
I returned to the old neighborhood and found everyone awaiting me. Cheering "You are the hero, you are the hope" loudly as my old crush waved at me along with all the other girls from the balcony. "You are the hero, you are the hope" they cheered as they carried me on their shoulders parading in front of the filming cameras as I waved my hand which had a few missing fingers.
Soon after, I was interviewed by the cameras. Asked about what it meant to be victorious.
"I guess victory is not dying", I tried to explain "In the battlefield, we all had a common enemy in getting killed and were doing our best to avoid it. Some of us had wives, girlfriends, sons, daughters, and parents to return to. So we were trying to return alive so we'd see them again, or at least not have them cry over us when...."
I stopped myself from talking as I saw the looks of boredom on everyone's face. I thought about it and instead said "I just did it to keep my country and the people safe". A great sound bite played later that day on the evening news as footage of my parents hugging me was played.
Amid all the new nicknames, I was bestowed I lost my name. The cameras weren't interested in filming the heartbroken parents, the widows, and orphans as I handed in my friends' dog tags to their new rightful owners, the true heir of heroes.
The next day, I woke up remembering the day before with glee. Humming to the rhythm of "You are the hero, you are the hope" in an empty street that had no one but me and a few street cleaners who were removing the confetti and alcohol containers left behind from yesterday's celebration.
Days went by, and the power went out due to unpaid bills. I sat in my dark room staring at the reflection of candle lights projected onto the container where I had put all the bullet scatters taken out of my body. As I hummed that contagious song in the kitchen, I realized that much like the sardine cans, heroism has an expiration date.
After that, I went back into my room hungry, took the last pill of government-provided Zoloft as I went into sleep humming "You are the hero, you are the hope".