Parents weep to see their child come home, from an invasion of another's country, missing various body parts. Oh how they regret letting that child, that young man/woman child of theirs, go into the military. Oh how their pride, so great when they saw that child in uniform for the first time, is now washed away in their floods of tears.
And these damaged children? They are the lucky ones. Not the luckiest ones - those are dead - but luckier than the ones we don't talk about - ever!
Those are the ones, whole in body or not, who have left their minds in that far-off land. This is damage that horrifies beyond imagining. That is not readily visible. This is when your child is taken but not taken. The shell exists. The child they raised and loved so dearly is gone. Not there. The child's body remains to remind them again and again and again, every moment of every day and night, of the child that is not there..... but there.
That body, that shell, carves great gaps in the souls of the parents as they hope, and hope, and hope. Hoping while knowing that the hope is futile eats one from the inside out. It destroys the very essence of one's being.
And it can never end - never, so long as that child's body is alive. And which parent can wish for it to not be alive?
Aside from an ungrateful government that is made up of those who will always send out your children for the sake of a few more bucks or a bit more power to feed their egos. Then forget them upon their unfortunate return. If we are going to allow our children to be thus used then we'd better learn to wish for them, should they be sent to do the bidding of our masters, only death; for death to so many of them would be a kindness.