First came the blinding light; Then the deafening silence. Or maybe it was the ringing, which came after. It might’ve been the crumbling and crashing of the buildings around me. The sickening wash of cold – then the disgusting, suffocating heat. But the order didn’t matter, because now, the once ashen snow that danced through the morning breeze, turned to a storm of ash drifting through a ruined sky.I stumbled through the cluttered streets – my mind I must have left splattered on the ground where I had awoken. The air was thick with smog, tickling the back of my throat raw, peeling the skin of my face like sandpaper, burning the glaze of my eyes. From a cocoon of what had once been beautifully painted walls, a hand emerged. Frail, shaking fingers, dust-coated and desperate, reached blindly for air. Drowning in a sea of concrete. The hand sought my own, though I didn’t know who had grabbed whom. There was no strength I could muster to save whomever lay beneath – yet still I tugged without thought – and despite the choked cries that rang out, the crackling walls parted and from there blossomed a trembling young man.He must have been beautiful once, before the downpours of rain turned into downpours of bombs. Now his shirt was soaked through with blood, I wasn’t quite sure if it was mine or his. He babbled mindlessly as he clung to me, hot tears and shaky breaths smothering my shoulder. Cold, clammy hands and skin stuck to me. The boy sobbed. Prayed to God – thanked God. Thanked me. Called me a hero. He rambled about everything and anything, until his voice turned to mere croaks. Told me of his elderly mother – how scared she must be. How I’d given him one more chance to see her.I’m not certain how long we stood there, clinging to each other helplessly, but soon the dust settled. A figure materialised from the haze: a soldier, uniform dusted grey, helmet tucked under one arm. He stood tall with shoulders broad, wrinkles on his face beyond his years.His shout drifted through the ringing in my ears, muffled yet sharp in its intent. He raised his weapon. I didn’t even process the shot until the boy in my arms fell limp, warm liquid soaking into my sleeves.The soldier hurled me forward, screeching at me about the enemy, insisting I’d been fooled. I followed, legs numb, leaving the boy behind on the broken pavement.But. For a moment, that sun shone down upon me – and for once I was the man I had enrolled to be. A hero.Still the light shifted, as it always seemed to do. And I walked on. Yet, the familiar glory of a battle won never graced me.The enemy had seemed so human, mere minutes ago. Young like me, scared like me. Emotions no monster could fake.I wondered if he was just as lost as me.This story was published in The Irish Times Fighting Words magazine, a collection of stories, poems and essays by young and international writers