I can no longer walk. Let me rephrase. I can no longer walk on my accord. My legs have developed a mind of their own, rendering me more useless than I’ve ever felt in this insignificant life of mine.
I may come across as bitter and upset, of which I assure you, I really really am. I’m just fed up. I’ve taken a hook to the chin, and I don’t see myself getting back up just to get knocked down again. It’s a vicious cycle that I’m stuck in and the cold, hard mat feels like a warm bed I can finally snuggle into, so that I can just slip away without a worry in my mind.
It’s been three days since the quadrangle massacre. Three days since I watched innocent children get ripped to shreds by creatures devoid of reason. Three days since 4 AM..
I’ve been told that to get over an incident, one must turn it into literature and dispense of it, physically and from memory. It sounds like a load of waffle, but really, what have I got to lose that I haven’t already lost?
Three days ago, after we’d repelled what seemed like most of the attack, I’d spun around to see two of Them attack and maul a group of three elderly women. After having unloaded an entire cartridge on one of the two, I quickly reloaded before turning my attention to the last one. To my horror and my dismay, it was 4 AM.
I stopped dead in my tracks. She turned to me, her mouth covered in blood, her eyes empty and devoid of emotion. A pain, slowly began to emanate from within my chest as I sunk to the ground, my gun clattering to the blood soaked floor.
She staggered slowly towards me, her arm outstretched, a quizzical expression draped across her face. I looked up, as the tears began to well up in my eyes as I stared at her beautiful, now cold face.
She stopped just half a yard ahead of me and continued to stare at me as if I were the one who’d turned. I looked at her and realized that something wasn’t right.
She was.. hesitating.
I could sense the struggle within her. Every step she took seemed more laboured, more reluctant.
Suddenly, she let out a scream and collapsed onto the floor.
I continued to stare at her, amazed and distraught at what I’d just witnessed. She started crawling towards me in desperation and for the first time I did not know why. Was she well and truly gone? Or was there something left inside that I could truly salvage? I could not tell.
And just when every instinct in my body was bellowing at me to get out of the way, I did what I never dreamt I’d ever do. I reached out and pulled her close to me, swiftly tugging her into an embrace.
She seemed almost as surprised as I was; what I was doing was foolish and borderline suicidal. But I didn’t care. As I held her, I felt that warmth course through my veins, as her breath grew raspier and raspier. My hands flowed through her hair like a harp, orchestrating one final masterpiece of my own. I took her head in my hands as she continued to stare, quizzically. I had no idea why she was still hesitating, why I wasn’t a pile of guts on the floor yet. I stroked her cheek once, wiping out some of the blood, the tears now streaming helplessly down my own.
And then, a loud bang echoed through the mall.
There is a condition, not very well known called “Takotsubo cardiomyopathy”. It involves a muscular portion of the heart, temporarily weakening. To a layman, it goes by the term, “Broken Heart Syndrome.” It isn’t fatal and one can quickly recover from it, but as I lay there holding 4 AM’s limp body in my hands, my wails piercing the eerie silence, I knew that it was what struck the telling blow.
It seemed like an eternity before the others dragged me away. I was inconsolable, furious and in pain. My gun was snatched out from my hand as they dragged me away, kicking and screaming, I felt a sharp sensation at the base of my neck and then everything just cut to black.
I woke up in my arm chair four hours ago. A note on my table informed that my condition was no longer deemed safe and I was to be escorted out later this evening. Trying to escape would be foolish and ill-advised. I’m anything but a stickler for rules, but at this juncture in time, I could no longer care. I’d fought this one sided war for as long as I could and everything that I remotely cared about, was snatched away from me, in gruesome fashion.
There’s a knock on the door. That’s probably the squad. Well, it had to end someday. I best not keep them waiting. This is the end, my friend. Into 4’s comforting arms, I go. To my so called “glorious death”, I go. Goodbye.