The humidity is unbearable. I wake up to a weight that is crushing yet invisible. The mosquitos are surrounding me, a blanket of tiny needles. War is Hell, but this place was Hell long before war came to it.
As far as I know I was separated from my platoon less than 48 hours ago. The air strike was unexpected, I was unconscious immediately after the first bomb dropped. I thought I was dead, darkness until I woke up. A dreamless darkness, thoughtless.
The language I didn't recognize is what startled me awake. Not the native tongue, not even similar. Then one of them came into the tent. No more than two feet tall. Impossibly dark skin. It isn't his stature that makes him terrifying, it's the saw in his hand and the menacing smile on his face. I black out after the first cut he makes above my knee.
The humidity is unbearable. I hear screams from beyond the curtain. The nurse comes in, hovers over me. She has a comforting smile on her face.
I look down at my body. Both legs are gone, along with my entire left arm and my right arm to the elbow. I yell, scream about the Pygmy man. She tells me I'm fine, I'm the only survivor from my platoon, from the air strike. No pygmies, just war.
I hear her whisper to the doctor, something about shell shock. She thinks I'm crazy. I watch as the Pygmy man with the saw follows her into the nurses station. I debate telling her, but I think I want her to be crazy too.
