I miss my nightmares. They were all sweet, innocent dreams about big, ugly guys with a thing for rusty farm tools. These days, I’m haunted by the fear that I’m still the monster lurking in my dreams, memories of my time in hell. I woke up suddenly, covered with ice-cold sweat and shaking, as usual. At least I wasn’t screaming my lungs out like so many times before. Memories can be a cast-iron bitch, like recalling how cold brains felt against my cheek as I took a shot at somebody in the distance before spinning the rifle in my hands and slamming the bayonet through a kid’s throat. I still remember the look of indignant rage on his face as he died. He looked to be about eleven or twelve.