Prologue

I was a 24-year-old man. Most would agree that my accomplishments surpassed those of my peers. Some might even argue I was remarkably successful. I had recently graduated from university, secured a well-above-average salaryman job, and achieved the rank of Sergeant in my nation's military. A sleek blue Beemer carried me around the city, where I inhabited a luxurious apartment boasting a panoramic skyline view. Physically, I was a machine – strong, fit, and tireless.

From an outsider's perspective, my life seemed perfect.

Or so it appeared. Looking back now, I can't definitively say. What I do know is that I was profoundly discontent.

My history, starting from primary school, was marred by bullying. Those experiences had kindled within me a resentment for human contact and an aversion to people. They became, in my mind, no more than loathsome cockroaches to evade.

But occasionally, individuals emerged whom I genuinely admired. They were either strikingly selfless or impressively successful. Selflessness and success were qualities I revered the most. I held their standards in high esteem, understanding that perhaps only 1 in 1000 could aspire to match them. I yearned to become one of those exceptional people.

In high school, I joined a popular clique and gained considerable popularity. However, I made it a point never to exploit anyone and frequently intervened in conflicts to protect the bullied, regardless of personal cost to my reputation or well-being.

For me, there was no middle ground – you were either among those exceptional beings I admired or just a parasitic existence.

This uncompromising mindset hindered my pursuit of love. In reality, it seemed an impossible endeavor.

Through a series of romances, I gradually realized I viewed women through the same lens I applied to everyone else – most were parasites. But allow me to clarify – my disdain was not rooted in sexism.

This perspective led me to evaluate women solely based on their appearances. I wouldn't settle for anything less than perfection, a 'ten.' Astonishingly, two such 'tens' did give me a chance. Those moments, in hindsight, were the best and worst of my existence. Both women eventually discarded me.

I hated life. I detested it.

No.

I hated MY life, and I detested myself.

Seeking an escape from this torment, I ventured into gambling. Initially, my earnings for the first month equaled an entire year's salary. That's what hooked me up. From there onward, I found only loss. Over five years, more than a quarter million dollars vanished – the hard-earned fruits of my labor.

Of course, this remained a secret, veiled beneath the façade of success that I diligently upheld before my parents and acquaintances. My BMW and opulent apartment were a mere smokescreen for my deteriorating reality.

Many assign blame for their misfortunes to external factors. But my accusatory finger pointed only at myself. It was my actions, after all, that forged my pitiable existence. Even in the face of external variables, I recognized that had I the chance to start anew, avoiding the same missteps, my achievements would prove grand.

I joined the military reserve when I was 17. My initial plan was to build a career from it. However, those plans were swiftly shattered, and I found myself harboring a growing aversion to it. It wasn't that I exactly hated it, but I certainly didn't derive any enjoyment from it either. It existed as an environment populated by a notable number of selfless individuals – those you could truly depend on and trust.

But it also harbored a dark underbelly. In my seven years of service, I encountered individuals of the most sinister kind: pedophiles, rapists, even murderers. If the decision were mine to make, a guillotine would be a merciful fate for them.

No.

If I held the power, I'd resurrect the concept of slavery, exclusively for them.

These abhorrent beings deserve suffering. They deserve to be dismantled, piece by piece, only to be resurrected and subjected to the same agony time and time again... and again... until the end of time.

As for me, within the military, I was a gray man. No distinct spotlight shone upon me. I wasn't a standout – neither the best nor the worst. My ascension through the ranks wasn't propelled by exceptional skills or knowledge. Instead, it was propelled by resilience, or perhaps, the unyielding desire to inflict harm upon myself.

Yet, that harm remained confined to myself. While I held disdain for most individuals, I adopted a laissez-faire approach, preferring avoidance over rectification. That's why I never raised my voice or inflicted substantial punishment on those under my command. I maintained an unbroken calm in every circumstance.

Each passing year, I convinced myself it would be my last in the service.

"Just one more year, and then I'll finally get my life in order and quit," I repeated to myself, an annual mantra that echoed through my mind. But every time, the allure of quitting clashed with the stark reality that the additional income from the service served as my lifeline. The mere thought of quitting felt like abandoning the only lifeboat that kept me from sinking. And then there was the matter of what others would think – my carefully cultivated superiority in the intricate dance of social standing would crumble into dust if I walked away. I'd become just another face in the crowd, another insignificance.

Thus, my involvement in the military persisted, a force dragging me back to partake in the unending cycles of weekend and evening military exercises and activities.

This arrangement allowed me to walk the tightrope of a precarious balance, my head hovering just above the waterline, both financially and, more significantly, in terms of my self-perception.

And so, this weekend unfolded like countless others, yet another installment in a relentless series of military exercises.

This weekend held no special significance; it was one of the two obligatory gun ranges organized by my regiment each year.

Apart from the weather, a gentle rainfall, the conditions were tolerable. After all, it was summer, and despite the cloud-covered sky, the temperature remained ideal for light physical activity. You could even argue that the soft drizzle was invigorating.

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My role for the day was that of an Assistant Range Safety Officer. I'd oversee the marksmen and relay the necessary commands. But before that, there was my own shooting to complete, my yearly check in the box.

Thus, I found myself placed in the first group to shoot.

I gripped my weapon firmly, while waiting in a prone position.

"Load" the ARSO's voice called out from behind me.

With practiced efficiency, I loaded my rifle with a 25-round magazine of 5.56 caliber bullets.

"300 meters, make ready," his voice reached me faintly.

Already, I was focused on the target before me. The ear protectors muffled the sounds around me.

Swiftly, I adjusted my scope and proceeded to cock the weapon, ensuring the bullet was properly seated and the safety engaged at the end.

"For a grouping of five bullets, fire on your target when ready."

Methodically, I discharged bullet after bullet onto the target as directed by the ARSO. The distinct smell of gunpowder mingled with the air. It's a scent I relish. The report of my firearm harmonizing with my heartbeat feels like a graceful dance. A dance that carries lethal consequences.

As with every preceding year, my results were satisfactory, though nothing meriting special attention. The completion of this year's gun range meant I now had the duty of assisting others.

My first leech, a term I use in my thoughts for people I have no special interest in, was a gentleman in his late fifties. He had enlisted alongside his son a few years ago. I doubted he'd remain in service much longer, given the military's general cutoff age of sixty.

His marksmanship fell within the realm of average. He attentively followed my commands and achieved a passing grade.

"Great, only three more groups to go; I might actually make it home in time for the Major League soccer game tonight."

After all, this week's paycheck hinged on the game's outcome, and I was keen on wrapping up the day.

"Assume the prone position," I instructed the next participant.

With his weapon in hand, he lowered his chest to the ground, legs spread to form a 60-degree angle between them – the classic firing stance for a prone position.

"Load!"

He retrieved a full magazine from his chest rig and inserted it into his rifle. Though one would typically hear a soft click confirming proper insertion, the ear protection rendered such subtle sounds inaudible.

"300 meters, make ready!"

The participant adhered to my instructions, checking his optical sight, cocking his weapon, ensuring proper bullet loading. He hesitated briefly before engaging the safety. Recognizing his realization of the initial oversight, I opted not to make an issue of it.

"For a grouping of five bullets, fire on your target when ready!"

Seconds elapsed, the sounds of other participants' shots punctuating the air. The one under my supervision was a tad tardy to join the party.

Finally, he exerted a gentle pressure on the trigger.

"Bang."

The target stood far away, preventing me from discerning the hit. From this distance and in the prone position, most individuals would likely make contact. The magazine acted as a support on the ground, stabilizing the firing process.

"Bang."

The true challenge lay in the sprint following the initial five shots. Participants had to race a hundred meters to the next firing point, then engage their targets while kneeling.

"Bang."

The rush of adrenaline and the exhaustion from the run often triggered uncontrollable shaking, the body's fine motor control yielding to the surge. It would be even more demanding if attempted from a standing position. This was why firing from a prone position was recommended when in a firefight.

"Bang."

One final shot before the ensuing sprint. My distaste for accompanying the participant during this phase was palpable. Last year, I ended up with a twisted ankle due to this very exercise.

"Click."

Something had clearly gone awry. The unmistakable sound signaled a misfire – a bullet failing to discharge after activation.

Approaching him, I aimed to confirm my suspicion.

"Click."

“FUCKING STOP AND PUT THE RIFLE ON THE GROUND!” I exclaimed loudly and quickly.

I rarely got angry enough to raise my voice like this. But seeing him disregard the proper procedures during a weapon stoppage and instead pressing the trigger again was plain stupidity.

I quickly assessed the situation and concluded that since the bolt was already forward, his action theoretically shouldn't be dangerous.

The most crucial part was to ensure that the barrel remained pointed down the range, away from his colleagues.

“Let me see what the problem is, just wait a moment.”

As I approached, the soldier reached out to offer me his weapon, holding it by the barrel.

“Bang.”

A single shot rang out.

In that instant, I realized his rifle had a delayed discharge. My mind raced to the paperwork that this accident would entail. I'd undoubtedly miss the soccer match later.

I turned my attention back to the soldier in front of me. He was a young fellow, likely experiencing his first gun range after basic training. Medium stature, short blonde hair—his last name is Maron, or something similar.

His eyes were wide with shock. It seemed like he was looking at me, yet also looking past me.

Lowering my gaze, I scanned the surroundings for anyone hit by the stray shot. People were rushing towards me, their voices filled with urgency. Another range instructor appeared in front of me, grabbing Maron's weapon.

Amid the chaos, I strained to decipher their urgent voices. Then, as I slowly lowered my head, the truth materialized before me. A crimson torrent surged from my chest, the swift flow of blood obliterating all other sensations. The cacophony around me faded, the world distant and muffled. The rhythmic beat of my own heart had vanished. It was as if that part of me had dissolved into nothingness.

Almost instinctively, my trembling hands moved to the wound, fingers brushing against the warm, sticky reality of my impending demise. The sight before me left no room for denial. I was dying. Not as an abstract concept, but as a raw, visceral experience unraveling before my eyes.

I was truly dying.

It was a leech, an insignificant figure, who had killed me.

Strangely, I found the thought amusing, and just before my final breath, I mumbled:

“This is the funniest shit ever.”

My words were barely audible, my lungs giving in.

I began to fall.

Everything turned gray, and then black.

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Authors notes

1. The rifle's magazine has a real capacity of 30 bullets. However, to preserve the magazine's metal spring at the bottom and prevent malfunctioning, a capacity of 28 bullets is recommended.

2. The depicted rifle range is based on a standard Level 3 test used by several NATO militaries. While it shares similarities with the real test, there are some differences in the portrayed version.

For those interested, the real test typically involves the following:

Starting at the 400m line, participants must run to the 300m line and fire 4 shots on two targets (totaling 8 rounds). The time allotted is approximately 45 seconds (from what I remember).

The process is repeated at the 200m and 100m lines, with varying rounds fired and positions taken.

The test concludes at the 50m line, where participants discharge any remaining bullets in full automatic mode at the target.

Feel free to ask questions or comment on the story so far, I'll be happy to answer:)

FYI, upload will be done on Fridays and Tuesdays

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