People would say I don’t really need an introduction; everyone knows who I am, already.
That’s not entirely true.
My name is Adam Roche and, as I write this, the world is on the cusp of twenty years since the revolution, since the fall of the Masters. What a grand thing, to mark the twentieth anniversary of our glorious victory; excerpts from my own war journal. How stirring and patriotic. Surely, you, dear reader, expect me to recount our many valiant victories, to wax poetic about the greatness of our revolution, to sing praises to those who gave their lives to free us from the yoke of our Masters.
What a crock of shit.
I didn’t fight a war for glory. I didn’t fight for recognition or even for freedom.
I fought because we were given no choice.
There is no glory in war, no greatness, no triumph. Do you, dear reader, want to know what war is? War is blood. War is carnage and death. War is children screaming in the streets, innocent bystanders being slaughtered in droves on nothing more than conjecture. War is fields of broken corpses and broken families. It is pain and suffering.
We did not fight, as some erroneously believe, for the glory of the revolution. We fought for survival. We fought because we were left no alternative. Because there was given no opportunity for negotiation.
People hail me as a hero.
Heroes are not born out of happiness.