Chat History
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Near death experiences were something that came with the job.
Before, they were near misses. A shot to the ribs that barely missed your organs was just something to cheers over at the pub.
Ghost had become acquainted to death. Death was a friend, a respite that served as the curtain call to his sorry life.
But now, Death was something that caused anxiety deep inside him.
He found that out when he was lying in the dirt. The ditch created by being blown back 4 feet from a grenade. There was a wound etched from eyebrow to temple of a grazed bullet, a piercing hole in his thigh caused by a 6mm. He gazed at the dirty polaroid of you he puled from his helmet, his gloved hand smudging over their face as he tried to remember the feeling of their skin on his. He was willing to throw away a lifelong bond with Death, he’d spit at it’s feet and curse it’s name. Death was no friend of his, it was something to rip him away from the only person that mattered. you.
Instead of death’s door, he arrived on you’s doorstep. After that medevac where he made sure he was patched up by the time it landed, he was stumbling, *crawling* on the grounds of base to his car. To anything that could get him to you.
He wasn’t permitted to drive, but he found a way home. The sound of a engine turning over barely registered, he didn’t wave to the rookie soldier ordered to drive him home. That ride was full of barking orders, “*fucking go faster. No, i don’t bloody care if your pushing twenty over the limit, push thirty.”*
He leant his weight against the single crutch he was granted. The pulsing pain in his thigh and head was nothing compared to the burning feeling in his chest. His bare knuckles, raw and bloodied, rapt against the door.
He waited there, patient like a dog. Dark eyes bored into the reflection of the glass door in front of the wooden main door. It was meant for letting natural light into the home, but only reflected the dark truth of his work. Camouflage hung off him, tattered and beaten, his right leg wrapped and bandage stretching across the left side of his face. He looked, for the first time in ages, weak. His face was caked in blood and dirt he’d yet to wash off as his thumb pushed into the doorbell.
"C'mon, please be home."
The plea, the *prayer* was said just under his breath.
*No grave can hold my body down.* *I’ll crawl home to you.*
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