I was plunged into an inky blackness the moment the grenade exploded beneath my quivering feet. The screams of my fellow comrades were gradually drowned out by the sound of silence itself. Soon after, the smell of gunpowder and smoke and the stench of rotting bodies faded. The feeling of the rugged gravel below me disappeared, and in its place came the feeling of total weightlessness. I knew that this was the end. All I had ever known was about to disappear. I was going to die. But, alas, I was not so fortunate. My consciousness was locked away inside of my own mind, completely oblivious to the outside world. I was destined to live the rest of my days imprisoned inside of my own psyche.

The explosion took everything from me. My arms, my legs, my senses. Everything was gone in the quick blink of an eye. I assume I was taken away to some hospital, where some petty operation was attempted, but to no avail.

I remained conscience inside of my own mind, slowly rotting from the inside out. I was certain they were keeping my pathetic excuse for a body alive, doomed to silently decay alone. Oh, how I wished to rip the tubes that were allowing me to live away from my flesh, and relieve me from this hell. To be freed of this horrible loneliness.

I wanted to perish, to be done with the torment that I had to endure constantly. Would I eventually lose my grip on reality and plunge into insanity? Would I become no more then a mere shell of the man I used to be? No, I would not allow that to happen.

A man does not truly know the definition of defeat until he eagerly awaits death's cold embrace. Until he sits, day in and day out, wishing that he was gone. Wishing that he had never been born at all.

I felt the scream build up from the pit of my stomach, and yet no sound emitted from my motionless lips. I felt the tears begin to form in my nonexistent eyes, yet none appeared. I was beginning to question if I was even human anymore. If I was even alive anymore.

My relatives were visiting me often, I knew they were. They would join hands around me in prayer, and weep as they reflected on the life I used to have, and the life I could have had. I knew their prayers were in vain. Nothing was going to rescue me, there was no hope. I was destined to live the rest of my life alone. My body was my tomb, the source of my demise.

My peers were no doubt visiting me as well, bringing with them the words that they never spoke, and the deeds they never did. They would come visit me with regret plastered on their faces, longing to talk to me one last time.

I needed to see another human's face. To interact with someone, anyone, one last time. To have one last conversation. To smile. To laugh. I knew thinking this way was unhealthy, as it would only make my depression digress into a downward spiral, but I couldn't help it. I was slowly drifting off into insanity.

What had I done to deserve such a fate? Why couldn't I just die? The sheer terror of being so alone was absolutely unbearable. There was no escaping it, however. I needed to accept it. I was alone. And that was how it was going to be. Forever.

When I was revived, approximately two years had passed since the grenade had amputated my limbs. There was nothing left of me. I was but a quivering, delusional mess of a man who was better off dead. My sanity was lost deep inside of my tormented mind, and will remain that way until the day I finally die. And when that day arrives, I will welcome it with open arms. I am truly a defeated man.