Mess Hall Countdown
First night in the mess hall
everything hits at once
the heat
the stink
the metal trays slamming like someone’s testing our nerves.
Hair still on the floor from the forced cuts
a reminder we’re not in charge of anything anymore.
The stew looks wrong
the bread fights back
and nobody says it
but everyone’s thinking the same thing:
if this is day one
what the hell is coming next.
and the noise keeps swallowing us whole
like it’s waiting for one of us to crack
Across the room
the loud guys pound the tables
laughing too big
talking tough
acting like they can’t wait to get shipped out.
We don’t get it.
We’re just trying to breathe
trying to remember home
the job that didn’t scream at us
the farm that made sense
the girl who didn’t need us to be anything but ourselves.
The night drags
nobody sleeps right
everyone hears something in the dark
they don’t talk about.
and the noise keeps swallowing us whole
like it’s waiting for one of us to crack
Morning hits like a punch to the ribs.
Gravel under our knees
hands slipping
arms shaking
pushups stacking up until the world tilts.
Sarge storms through
all boots and rage
telling us to drop
telling us to rise
telling us we’re soft
telling us we’re slow
telling us we’re not ready
for whatever’s coming.
Some guys grin like they’re already heroes.
Good for them.
The rest of us just try not to pass out.
and the noise keeps swallowing us whole
like it’s waiting for one of us to crack
The days pile on
heavy
mean
uncertain.
The food hits the stomach like a threat
the drills hit harder
and the letters from home feel like they’re written to someone else.
Forks clatter
boots stomp
someone yells for no reason
and every sound feels like it’s aimed at us.
Nobody says it out loud
but we all feel it—
that pressure
that edge
that sense that something big and bad is coming
and we’re not ready
and we didn’t ask for any of this.
and the noise keeps swallowing us whole
like it’s waiting for one of us to crack
We remember the quiet
the normal
the life that didn’t feel like a countdown.
Here
nothing fits
nothing settles
and every minute pushes us toward something
we can’t see
can’t stop
can’t escape.
Still the trays crash
the boots scrape
the voices rise
and we sit in the middle of it
trying to hold onto whatever pieces of ourselves
haven’t been stripped away yet.
and the noise keeps swallowing us whole
but we keep breathing
because stopping isn’t an option
not here
not now
