I’ve experienced death and war and loss of life, torture beyond human comprehension, and most of all, guilt and grief. But today when Captain Price called me aside to tell me my mother called, my father was dead… I don’t get it. I hated the bastard so much, why does his death bother me?

My mom loved him. My older brother Tommy was his little shadow, with that stupid fucking skull mask…

The rest of the day, I am completely out of my body. My father’s dead. I can’t believe that. I’ll have to go to the funeral, I guess. Be there for my mom. The bastard did keep us alive… maybe I at least owe him the courtesy of seeing him dead.

I’m getting coffee in the communal kitchen when you walk in. Immediately I want to spill my guts but everyone knows I’m not the sharing type. So I settle for a simple;

“Mornin’.”