just_muse_me | 24.7.3.
24.7.3. FIVE moments you wished you were somewhere else and ONE you knew you had to be there
[The aftermath of THIS | Simultaneous to THIS, THIS and THIS]
I.
Pain. The sort where you wished you were dead. That's all he could feel. Moving was impossible. Maybe he was dead, and this was just Hell? The heat came next, and then the nauseating taste of blood, dirt, and maybe vomit. Or it could be just the acrid odour permeating the air. The pain was making it impossible to differentiate the senses. Something was telling him he should try to move, to talk... anything. But he couldn't. He could barely even open his mouth, let alone function to do anything else. Something was wrong. That's all he knew, and that's all he could absorb before the blackness engulfed him again.
II.
If his eyes were open, he couldn't see. There was recollection of an explosion and this time, he could taste vomit and blood, he was sure of it. When he tried to draw in a breath, pain shot through his chest so blinding that his body caused him to reflexively cough and retch. But he wasn't sure at this point if he could afford to lose any bodily fluids. That crushing pain had to be caused by something. He managed to crack his eyes open just a little, but a bright light felt like it was burning right into the core of his brain. Something whimpered, but he didn't know if it was him or not. He didn't know if that trickling sensation down his cheek was sweat or tears. Or blood. He tried to get his eyes open again, but he didn't have enough strength for that. He was barely able to even latch onto a recognition of where he was, let alone that just a couple of feet away, two other men lay unmoving in the blood-soaked dirt. Only one thing could filter through his brain before he slipped out of consciousness again...
Leila.
III.
Months. That's how long it felt that he had been lying there. At least months. He knew he was conscious, he knew there were explosions and gunfire somewhere near, unless he was imagining it for comfort. Imagining a battle for comfort? Maybe he had finally cracked up. He had gone mental and was trapped in a place in his mind where he would be forever stuck at war, and would never see Leila again. But now he felt numb to his emotions. Maybe even numb to the pain, too. If he didn't feel anything, surely it would stop soon? Was this just a bad dream he couldn't wake up from? If he lay here long enough, trying to ignore the pain and ignore the fly crawling across his cheek towards his nose, he would wake up.
Or he would die.
Right now, the latter was tempting. If he was dying, at least he wouldn't be alone. He would be nothing. Which would mean he was once something.
Was he once something? Or was dying and rotting on a desert battlefield always just going to be it? His eyes felt dry as they rolled behind the backs of his stinging eyelids.
Til death us do part shouldn't be a soldier's wedding vows. He was a dead man walking anyway.
Soldiers shouldn't be allowed to get married. He had no right to love her, and leave her.
Not like this.
IV.
He had to brace himself this time, a wave of determination starting in his gut and creeping up into his chest. He gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply, roughly through his nose as he worked to get his eyes open. Where was he? Why was he in so much agony? He didn't know how long it took for him to force his eyes to adjust to the sharp light and when he could finally see, it was hazy and he could only focus on the red dirt a few inches in front of his face. There was blood, but when he tried to lift his head, every inch of him protested. Had he broken his back? His neck? Why the fuck was he still here? Why was no one helping him?!
"Lei-" he tried to get out, his pain-impeded mind drawing back to his wife again. Scared, agonised tears pooled in his eyes and trickled down the side of his face, mixing with the dirt and sweat making a sticky, grimy paste on his burnt skin. He missed her. If she could be here, everything would be okay. He would spend the rest of his life in agonising pain if only he could just have two seconds with her right now. To have her tell him it was going to be okay.
But she wasn't there. Was he ever going to see her again?
V.
"Pete!" The cry was hoarse and choked with a sob. Despite the pain wracking his entire body, he managed to reach just that couple more inches and his fingers hooked around his friend's limp, cold wrist. It was burning hot, humid and clammy. How could he be cold?! He tried again to desperately reach the other man's hand, but it was impossible. Rob's other arm was trapped under something and even just trying to get another extra inch closer to his friend sent him back to the grinding agony that had him drifting in and out of consciousness for God only knew how long. Tears spilled over his cheeks as he realised that getting to Pete was impossible. He couldn't reach him. He couldn't grip hold of his hand to pull him back. "No," he sobbed, the word barely audible as it caught in his parched throat.
With one last burst of some innate inner strength, his hand breached the gap and close around the other soldier's cool hand as more pain screamed through Rob's entire body. It was too much, and he just couldn't do it anymore. There was no strength left to stay. His cheek was crushed painfully into the scorching desert ground as he closed his eyes to let go. Leila had to understand... she had to forgive him.
He couldn't hang on any longer.
ONE
Dull beeps. Hushed whispers. A squeaking wheel. A flat, monotonous trill of some signal or another.
His exhausted blue eyes opened slightly, but there was no red of a desert or of blood to meet them this time. Just white. Clean, crisp white. And the smell, he knew it. Antiseptic, sharp and filtering in his nose and feeling like it was burning in the back of his throat. He swallowed hesitantly, waiting for the parched taste of dirt and gunpowder to assault the back of his tongue, but it never came. Breathing slowly, still scared to move too much in case that pain was back, he opened his eyes just a little more and absorbed his surroundings.
A hospital bed, in a hospital ward. Not an infirmary. An actual hospital. The beeping was from monitors connected to wires and tubes feeding into the top of the hospital gown he was adorned in. There was still pain and restriction, his body feeling like it was swathed in wet, heavy sheets, but it was almost a euphoric relief to feel. Outwardly, he was unmoving, his face expressionless.
He survived.
Gradually, his finger crept closer to a red alert buzzer resting on the bed beside his hand. If he moved slowly enough, he could get there. Somehow he had survived the impossible. Had a second chance. The tips of his fingers on his right hand just reached the button without too much pain, and fittingly, it was his ring finger, where his wedding ring should be that pushed down on the call button. Despite the horror he had just endured, he only wanted and needed one thing.
Leila.
Leila is doesntwaltz and referenced with permission
Word Count | 1,282
[The aftermath of THIS | Simultaneous to THIS, THIS and THIS]
I.
Pain. The sort where you wished you were dead. That's all he could feel. Moving was impossible. Maybe he was dead, and this was just Hell? The heat came next, and then the nauseating taste of blood, dirt, and maybe vomit. Or it could be just the acrid odour permeating the air. The pain was making it impossible to differentiate the senses. Something was telling him he should try to move, to talk... anything. But he couldn't. He could barely even open his mouth, let alone function to do anything else. Something was wrong. That's all he knew, and that's all he could absorb before the blackness engulfed him again.
II.
If his eyes were open, he couldn't see. There was recollection of an explosion and this time, he could taste vomit and blood, he was sure of it. When he tried to draw in a breath, pain shot through his chest so blinding that his body caused him to reflexively cough and retch. But he wasn't sure at this point if he could afford to lose any bodily fluids. That crushing pain had to be caused by something. He managed to crack his eyes open just a little, but a bright light felt like it was burning right into the core of his brain. Something whimpered, but he didn't know if it was him or not. He didn't know if that trickling sensation down his cheek was sweat or tears. Or blood. He tried to get his eyes open again, but he didn't have enough strength for that. He was barely able to even latch onto a recognition of where he was, let alone that just a couple of feet away, two other men lay unmoving in the blood-soaked dirt. Only one thing could filter through his brain before he slipped out of consciousness again...
Leila.
III.
Months. That's how long it felt that he had been lying there. At least months. He knew he was conscious, he knew there were explosions and gunfire somewhere near, unless he was imagining it for comfort. Imagining a battle for comfort? Maybe he had finally cracked up. He had gone mental and was trapped in a place in his mind where he would be forever stuck at war, and would never see Leila again. But now he felt numb to his emotions. Maybe even numb to the pain, too. If he didn't feel anything, surely it would stop soon? Was this just a bad dream he couldn't wake up from? If he lay here long enough, trying to ignore the pain and ignore the fly crawling across his cheek towards his nose, he would wake up.
Or he would die.
Right now, the latter was tempting. If he was dying, at least he wouldn't be alone. He would be nothing. Which would mean he was once something.
Was he once something? Or was dying and rotting on a desert battlefield always just going to be it? His eyes felt dry as they rolled behind the backs of his stinging eyelids.
Til death us do part shouldn't be a soldier's wedding vows. He was a dead man walking anyway.
Soldiers shouldn't be allowed to get married. He had no right to love her, and leave her.
Not like this.
IV.
He had to brace himself this time, a wave of determination starting in his gut and creeping up into his chest. He gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply, roughly through his nose as he worked to get his eyes open. Where was he? Why was he in so much agony? He didn't know how long it took for him to force his eyes to adjust to the sharp light and when he could finally see, it was hazy and he could only focus on the red dirt a few inches in front of his face. There was blood, but when he tried to lift his head, every inch of him protested. Had he broken his back? His neck? Why the fuck was he still here? Why was no one helping him?!
"Lei-" he tried to get out, his pain-impeded mind drawing back to his wife again. Scared, agonised tears pooled in his eyes and trickled down the side of his face, mixing with the dirt and sweat making a sticky, grimy paste on his burnt skin. He missed her. If she could be here, everything would be okay. He would spend the rest of his life in agonising pain if only he could just have two seconds with her right now. To have her tell him it was going to be okay.
But she wasn't there. Was he ever going to see her again?
V.
"Pete!" The cry was hoarse and choked with a sob. Despite the pain wracking his entire body, he managed to reach just that couple more inches and his fingers hooked around his friend's limp, cold wrist. It was burning hot, humid and clammy. How could he be cold?! He tried again to desperately reach the other man's hand, but it was impossible. Rob's other arm was trapped under something and even just trying to get another extra inch closer to his friend sent him back to the grinding agony that had him drifting in and out of consciousness for God only knew how long. Tears spilled over his cheeks as he realised that getting to Pete was impossible. He couldn't reach him. He couldn't grip hold of his hand to pull him back. "No," he sobbed, the word barely audible as it caught in his parched throat.
With one last burst of some innate inner strength, his hand breached the gap and close around the other soldier's cool hand as more pain screamed through Rob's entire body. It was too much, and he just couldn't do it anymore. There was no strength left to stay. His cheek was crushed painfully into the scorching desert ground as he closed his eyes to let go. Leila had to understand... she had to forgive him.
He couldn't hang on any longer.
ONE
Dull beeps. Hushed whispers. A squeaking wheel. A flat, monotonous trill of some signal or another.
His exhausted blue eyes opened slightly, but there was no red of a desert or of blood to meet them this time. Just white. Clean, crisp white. And the smell, he knew it. Antiseptic, sharp and filtering in his nose and feeling like it was burning in the back of his throat. He swallowed hesitantly, waiting for the parched taste of dirt and gunpowder to assault the back of his tongue, but it never came. Breathing slowly, still scared to move too much in case that pain was back, he opened his eyes just a little more and absorbed his surroundings.
A hospital bed, in a hospital ward. Not an infirmary. An actual hospital. The beeping was from monitors connected to wires and tubes feeding into the top of the hospital gown he was adorned in. There was still pain and restriction, his body feeling like it was swathed in wet, heavy sheets, but it was almost a euphoric relief to feel. Outwardly, he was unmoving, his face expressionless.
He survived.
Gradually, his finger crept closer to a red alert buzzer resting on the bed beside his hand. If he moved slowly enough, he could get there. Somehow he had survived the impossible. Had a second chance. The tips of his fingers on his right hand just reached the button without too much pain, and fittingly, it was his ring finger, where his wedding ring should be that pushed down on the call button. Despite the horror he had just endured, he only wanted and needed one thing.
Leila.
Leila is doesntwaltz and referenced with permission
Word Count | 1,282