Reflections of a retired Army Combat Uniform that never saw combat

Is this all there is? Oh my ... I think this is all there is.

I was born to be a warrior. My maker designed me in the ashes of 9/11 to fight terrorism. When I was young, I imagined that a soldier would pick me up at the Central Issue Facility. He would be a private, or maybe a specialist, and I would accompany him on his first deployment. I would shield him from scrapes and fires. I would provide him warmth, protection, and comfort.

My life has killed that dream.

I was recently retired, and the only combat I ever saw was paintball at a birthday party. And now, I am a featured element of Mrs. Markson’s boudoir photo shoot. I am a prop, a sexualized object through which her bosoms and her booty can peek-a-boo for her husband’s pleasure. She even bought those high-waisted green lace panties from Aerie to compliment the colors of the camouflage. An absolute insult.

What has become of me?

I hate myself. I see photos of my brothers and sisters in battle, fighting with every stitch of their being. Their airborne wings and combat action badges glisten in the light. Those combat uniforms fulfilled their purpose to arm and protect the warfighter and augment the capabilities of the Army.

My fate is sealed. After my time as a sex prop, I’m sure to become a wash rag, or maybe a dog’s chew toy. I wish they would just throw me in the incinerator before what’s left of my dignity is taken from me. War is hell, but so is this life I am living. My dream has turned to shame.