AN:/ Finally, after not writing for FF at all for a few months, I managed to pull something out of my ass. I guess it's so-so. I'm tired and my train of thought is running of the rails, so I'm keeping this Author's Note short and sweet. Don't forget to review! Oh! There's also some implied Slash. Don't like? Sucks for you. This fic is short and sweet. I like short sentences... not really. I have shitty punctuation, so bear with me. There are spoilers for MW2 if you haven't already played, (pssh, what am I saying? 'Course you have!) and if you don't get who's POV this is by the end of the fic, I'mma whack you upside the head with a life-size model of Ghost's arm… no, no, no, not his real arm. Just a plastic one… that may or may not exist… READ, BITCH.
Just kidding, I love you. :3
Never Again
He stared blankly at the grave. The sun shone in all of its goddamn glory. The birds chirped as if all was right in the world. Children played tag amongst the headstones, laughing.
How dare they mock him.
If the world was the way he wanted it to be, life would be shades of grey. A continuous downpour would batter and beat down all the good things in life. It'd crush them like a bug under its boot. It wouldn't be happy.
He knew he was being irrational. Hell knows he knew. But the constant guilt gnawed at his mind. It was too much to take.
When he had first heard about the incident icy claws tore at his heart. He wanted to deny its happening, but before he could there were other matters to take care of. Revenge.
Revenge wreaked havoc on his soul. It left him bitter and it festered in the back of his mind. He needed it―badly. Revenge didn't make him any better than the murderer, but he was too far from his morals to care. He thought only revenge would satisfy him.
So he went about his work and put up a convincing façade. He acted as he had before. A bullet to the leg here and a slash to the chest there didn't make a difference in his performance as long as the antagonist received the same treatment. But for them, that treatment was death. He was numb and a long way down the road of not caring.
That same day he got his payback, it was just a he expected.
There was the breaking in. There was then chase. He even had a near-death experience before the deed was done. All to be expected.
Of course there'd be the death of the enemy. He had pulled the man's knife out of his chest and there he saw it: the golden window of opportunity. Raw emotion rose up in him like a tidal wave and propelled the knife from his hand. The blood-stained blade glinted in the desert sun as it flew through the air, whistling as it went. It buried itself hilt-deep in the eye of the traitor.
What he hadn't anticipated was the lack of an accomplished feeling―that he was still empty inside. He knew what he was missing and that what it was wasn't coming back. And the feeling lingered in his heart when the tendrils of unconsciousness claimed him aboard the pave-low.
As the days moved by, and the aching in his heart swelled with each passing second, he became more and more aware that the darkness inside of him was obvious to the people around him. The restlessness, frustration, and lack of concentration were the first to show.
Whenever he visited the shooting range, he'd spray bullets all over the range in a vile attempt to shoot the targets in the one place hit hurt the most, where pain made its home, but his dwindling focus from restless nights skewed his aim and his frustration kicked in. He then lost interest in defeating even his live enemies.
Next, there was the notable lack of energy and he suddenly slept too much, though nobody would bother him about the latter. The only times he would be seen out of his room were for a drink. Or ten. He would down glass after glass and shot after shot of liquor as he aimed to drown all of his worthlessness and excessive guilt. And at the end of the day, when he was high as a kite yet low as a grave, he would somehow make his way back to his quarters and into bed. Even if we weren't sober enough to recount the entire day's monotonous events, he'd still be able to stare at the ceiling and recall every moment he had with him.
Every touch. Every kiss. Every word ever said.
And the instant he had it all ripped away.
Now standing in the graveyard after weeks of seclusion and nights of crying himself to sleep, he had hit his all time low.
Here he would spend his last moments on Earth.
Tomorrow, he would be in his arms.
He lost two men that day: one his lover, the other his friend. Never again would he lose them.
Never again.
AN:/ Didn't I tell you this was a dark!fic? It's actually my first crack at it and I feel it's pretty good for a first try, it might be a bit OOC, but that's what depression does to a person. Wanna give me your opinion? Oh, and don't forget to flame! I absolutely love s'mores and wouldn't mind inviting you over for some! Yummm.