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I start to question myself. Am I the abnormality here? Is what I consider madness, needless violence, innocent deaths, the normal way? Perhaps it is, it has been going on since time began. Surely this violence and murder must be normal. That’s it, I must be faulty. Listening to the rifles and the other vests it is obvious that I am the only one pondering these questions.

The machine guns, the AK’s, are what you would call grizzly old veterans. They wear their scratches and nicks with pride. The one with the brown rusted stain on the strap boasts to the others that it’s the blood of one of the many men, only he calls them holy warriors, who have used him. He seems almost unable to contain his excitement as he brags that on that day, he killed many before he was dropped from the lifeless hands of this holy warrior. One of the four is brand new, almost shining. He seems so excited to be on the brink of firing as his user checks his magazine, eager to fire for the very first time, do what he was made to do.

Again, the questions swirl around, questions which seem to have no answer. Just because we were made to kill, does that make it right? Killing justifies our existence. It is our one purpose. Yet with this being our purpose I would rather not exist. It sickens me that I am a weapon.

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