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.: Tuesday, April 06, 2004 :.
Turkey after midnight is rarely good for you, then again, not much is.
He stared at his plate, flash backs played out on it, gruesome scene after gruesome scene. His appetite wavering on a string thinner then the peice of meat in front of him. Phased, motionless. He stirred his peas with the end of his fork, some rolled, some were mashed, spilling their green guts into a sea of mash potatoes.
Everything that was wrong sat there staring back. Everything stared back. There wasn't a force this side of hell that could bring him to eat that night.
In the name of good he had been sent, and it was in the name of good for which he was told to fight. Good was good, just, worth fighting for, but this particular good was wrong. And it was with this realization that he began to doubt everything that he had ever been told.
If it was possible to be so utterly convinced that something wrong is infact right, then was it not possible that anything else could fall under these conditions as well? That thought more frightening then anything he had already seen.
It was.
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