Foreign Fighters

Kiril’s world spilled out through a hole in his stomach. He brought his hand over the hole. He applied pressure and felt fire burn through his body. He had to keep himself inside.

He was slouched against a wall. His legs felt alien. They were at once both his and belonging to another. He tried to wiggle a toe. Nothing happened. 

There were others at the base. Many seemed to be in Kiril’s position. A medic with ash on his face pulled another fighter against the wall beside Kiril. That fighter’s neck was limp. His head hung down, spittle hanging from his lips and shining in the early morning light. Kiril looked away, calling for the medic. His world spilled out onto his hands. Onto his fatigues, into the pale twilight.