(no subject)
It was wet.
So fucking wet, think, warm, and it wouldn’t stop flowing. He clutched his side and hissed, the pain overwhelming and taking hold of his senses.
He could smell the tang of rust likeness from the blood. The sick, stomach twisting stench of fresh kill and flesh wafting into his nose.
Feeling the warm, thick, wet substance, running through his fingers, and the frayed edges of the standard military uniform, ripped and torn from bullet debris.
The sound, hearing himself himself, gagging and chocking as blood came running from his mouth, the ground vibrating against his face as he landed onto the floor.
He was dying, fucking dying and he couldn’t do anything about it.
“We’ve gotta move. We’ve gotta MOVE!”
It was all around him, mortars going off, gunshots blasting on all side of him. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t move and inch from where he was.
He’ll be dead soon.
And time wasn’t going to pass quickly for him.