M4

M4 Lightweight— “You are so skinny, Trainee! You’ll never be a soldier.” I squeeze my eyes shut, tightly, each word heavier than steel. Magazine-fed— “You need to eat something, son. He is gone, but you’re still here.” My face is pale, drained of color. Each memory chambers in. Gas-operated— “Soldier, what the hell is that? Can’t you even shoot your gun?” My fingers tremble, shaking, pistons locked in helpless shame. Shoulder-fired— “Shoot back, god damn it! Shoot back!” The weight of orders holds me down. My finger pulls the trigger. The recoil crushes into me. Weapon— I squeeze my eyes shut, tightly. My face is pale, drained of color. My fingers tremble, shaking . My finger pulls the trigger.