AN: It's been a million years since I've written anything. So here's a shot at my first story in about two years. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, that privilege goes to the lovely Stephenie Meyer. Lucky gal.
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It's so strange… I don't know what day it is, or what time it is, but I'm pretty positive it's twilight. The sky is orange and crimson and foggy, and I'm not sure if it's from the sunset or from the bombs and the war. My helmet sits low on my head and my pack weighs heavy on my back. I can feel the sweat from my forehead work its way down my face and fall off of my chin. My hands grip my weapon so tight my knuckles are white. I'm terrified, but I can't show it. I lead my squad on with a wave of my hand. We creep past the ruins of buildings and cars, through dusty streets, looking for the enemy. Everyone's on the lookout, but we've seen nothing so far. Just as I turn the corner, I spot him. He's got a look of pure terror on his face. He's sweating so much, his thin white t-shirt clings to his body while he shakes. His hand reaches for the pin attached to the homemade bomb on his chest. I've just screamed at my squad to run as I raise my gun to my eye. My finger's on the trigger, but he's faster than I am. He pulls the pin out and I go flying back. My uniform's ripped to shreds as bits of shrapnel and blood cover my chest. I land on my back, about five feet away. I can smell the bits of his dead body smoking, a smell I'll remember for the rest of my life. My chest and arms are on fire and my vision's black and fuzzy around the edges. There's a pitiful groaning sound in the distance, and it takes me a moment before I realize it's coming from me. I can't move my body.
"Sergeant Whitlock!" I hear someone yell from my right. Or maybe my left, I'm not even sure. Everything hurts. My Corporal invades my vision and I feel someone squeeze my hand. That hurts, too. I moan and close my eyes. I can hear people talking, screaming, and yelling but I can't make out what they're saying. Soon it's all just a dull mumble in my head. Everything goes black. I think I'm dead.
I bolt upright in my bed. The sheets that were covering my body pile at my waist and there's a thin sheen of perspiration coating my bare chest. My right arm is stiff, a result from my encounter with the suicide bomber in Iraq. It was just a dream. No, it was just a nightmare. My heart is hammering in my chest, but I can feel it slowing down now that I'm awake. I rub the back of my neck with my hand and swing my legs over my side of the bed. My face rest in my hands as I feel my wife stir on the other side of the bed.
"Jazz?" she questions, her voice rough from sleep. "Are you okay?" I sigh, feeling guilty I've woken her up. Turning, I place my hand on her ivory arm. Her gray eyes squint at me through the moonlight.
"Yeah, I'm okay Ali," I say. I bend down and kiss her forehead. "Just need a drink of water, that's all."
"Okay Jazzy, night," she all but whispers as she snuggles back under the covers, ready to drift back into sleep. I groan and stand up, making my way from our room to the kitchen. After grabbing a bottle of water, I sit at the kitchen table.
"When will this stop?" I ask myself. I don't know what I'm going to do if it continues.
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So, did you guys like it? Review if you did or didn't, and I'll continue if it's any good.