After The War

The Review Board wants to interview me today.
I go down to the new Town Hall, passing the rubble of the old one.
“Were you in the war?” they ask.
The scars and my withered hand say yes.
“I don’t remember,” I say, just as the Veteran Release Center told me to say.
A doctor scans my brain with a wand.
“He’s clean,” he says. “All memories gone.”
“Innocent,” the Board declares, and my ID is stamped with a black V.
Outside, a woman points at me and screams.
“BUTCHER!”
She is arrested.
Don’t resist. Reprogramming is painless.
(I think.)