Before the accident, he was one of the most vibrant people I knew. He was a runner; cross country was his obsession. Well, it was after me, he would sometimes say coyly before walking off with a laugh at my reaction. But aside from those brief joking moments, he was always quiet. Thoughtful is the best word that fit him. He once told me his mom thought he was an old soul.
We met in school. Sophomore year, physics class. The class partnered up and he had been the first to shyly scoot his chair closer to mine. We had hit it off right away. We had several common friends, and it was only natural we started spending more time together. He would often come over to my house to study with me, and we would stay up late chatting and laughing at stories about our other friends before my father would kindly kick him out of the house after pointing out the hour.
By the time our senior year rolled around, he had found another obsession. The military. His eyes would light up when he told me about the different heroic stories he had read in the newspapers. I would smile despite the pain in my chest at the thought of him going off to fight. It made him happy, I couldn't just keep him here.
He started running even more, as well as adding several other exercises to his personal training regimen. He had started to put on more bulk when he asked if I would like to run with him. I was in pretty bad shape, but I accepted the invitation. Those runs became a type of quality time unlike everything else previously. Running in silence next to each other left us in an almost Zen like state. He would occasionally break the calmness with small nudge from his elbow before he would race off, daring me to chase him. He always outran me, of course. No matter how hard I chased after him, he would always effortlessly pull away and leave me panting in the dust.
One day though, my view of him seemed to shift. He had always been a nice looking guy, but suddenly I couldn't keep my eyes off of him unlike in the past. His blue eyes captured my gaze with the smallest glance. His blonde hair shone in the sun as we walked along. I also found myself craving the time we spent together more and more. He would light up my entire day with a simple hello. Apparently, he had been feeling the same way about me, because after one of our runs that winter, he asked me if we would like to be something more. "Of course," I had answered with a smile, my breath puffing out small vapor clouds. His smile, a rare thing that few people besides me saw, grew to be the biggest I had seen on him.
Our senior year finally came to a close. He enlisted, and our graduation ceremony commenced. He playfully grabbed my cap and threw it into the air right after I had searched through hundreds of other caps to find it again, but gave me his to throw as payback. I had tossed it high up, but my smile and happiness were short-lived. In just a few short weeks he would be deployed. The war across the sea was going badly, and more soldiers were needed.
He eventually noticed my pain after a few days. It was only natural; he knew me better than anyone. He went out of his way to make our last days together the best we had ever had. He would go everywhere with me, hug me often, and make our kisses sweeter and more loving than anything I had ever felt. He told me that he felt bad about hurting me; his mother was also grieving at the thought of him going off to war. I tried my best to keep a strong face, though. It wasn't until the night before he left that I broke down, crying into his shoulder. There had been distress on his face as he cradled me and shushed until my sobs dwindled into small hiccups. When I finally looked up and gave him a tentative smile, he smiled back and took my hand, pulling me to my room with a more passionate kiss.
Several hours before his departure, I had clung to him as he slept those last few minutes. It had been a comfort to feel his bare chest rising and falling with each breath, to hear his heart beat against my cheek. But when he walked onto the ship, uniform crisp and rucksack in hand, the distress I had been feeling for the past few months was crushing my throat. He had waved, a large smile on his face, and his mother and I waved back. Then he was gone.
The boy who left was nothing like the man who has come back. After two years overseas fighting, he was sent home. But unlike many soldiers before him, it was not because he had finished his tour. A misstep from a startling gunshot, a steep rock cliff, and a road full of vehicles underneath it had spelled out the end of his military career. I can only struggle to keep myself on my feet as I stand next to his hospital bed. They showed me pictures from when they had recovered his broken body. He had been shirtless – it was hot where he had been fighting – and the slab of flesh pulled back from his chest had smiled up from the picture with a bloody grin. Like a piece of ham only partially sawed off a Christmas roast. Hitting the sharp cliff face had done that, they said. The impact of hitting the road had cracked his skull and some ribs. The vehicles on it had crushed his lower leg. The doctors had been forced to amputate, and the evidence is laying before me now underneath white sheets.
I choke back a sob as I fall to my knees and take his hand, pressing it to my face. His eyes are closed. He has prongs up his nose, giving him oxygen. His lips are parted slightly, occasionally wheezing out a faint breath.
I can only hope he'll wake up.
I feel terrible. I can't believe myself. Can I even call myself a decent human being? But after everything I've seen now, I almost wish he hadn't woken up.
When he woke up, he had just stared at the ceiling. Whenever I tried to get his attention, he would just stare at me for a few moments before shutting his eyes. He never spoke for the first two weeks. He would often be sitting up and staring at the opposite wall, eyes highly focused and unseeing. His bandaged hands would occasionally clench until his knuckles turned white and the sheets would be permanently crinkled until their next wash. He never did it when I was in obvious sight, but I caught him once reaching down and holding the amputated stump of his leg.
I was there through everything, offering all the support I could. When they had presented his prosthetic leg, he had glared at it as if it was the biggest insult anyone had ever made towards him. During his rehabilitation, he would grit his teeth with each tottering step. If I ever made to help him, he would shake me off angrily and continue his struggle and on his own.
When he was finally released from the hospital, they sent him home. His mother had been overjoyed to see him, and he had spared a moment of patience for her to give him a few kisses and hugs. The second she mentioned the prosthetic leg, he had clammed up and disappeared into his old room.
I walk to his room today with his lunch. He sometimes has trouble getting out of bed. I think it's from emotional reasons instead of physical ones. But when I open the door, he isn't there. I panic for a moment. I always hear him because of his prosthetic leg. Where did he go?
I search the house, but he is in none of the rooms. I check the backyard. Nothing. I exit the front door. The air is very crisp with winter just around the corner. The wind blows the remaining leaves off of the trees as I look up and down the street. I have an inkling of an idea and head down our old running route. It only takes me ten minutes to find him. He is limping down the sidewalk, his crutch tapping against the ground with every other step. He's completely barefoot and still wearing his sweatpants. The scar on his chest is exposed to the world. He must be freezing.
When I reach him and give him support, he doesn't shake me off like he normally would. He just keeps limping along, gazing at the ground. When we reach the house, he disappears into his room again. For the next few days, his appetite starts disappearing. He does not respond to anything. He either lays in his bed or sits on a chair, staring out the window. It's like he just… stops. I can only wonder what he thought about on our old running route. The contrast between him during our old runs and him now is unbelievably painful. His effortless gait has turned into a bitter limp. His smile is gone. The warmth we shared has become an ice barrier shoved between us. As I watch him stare forlornly out the window, I can only wish he hadn't woken up. If he hadn't woken up, he would not be in this pain.
If he hadn't woken up, he would not be wasting away.
If he hadn't woken up, my last memory of him would have been of his smile and a wave.
I glance at his leg, and I can't help but feel that in spite of the limp and plastic leg, Cloud is outrunning me again. But the end of this race is one I hope he never reaches.
A/N: Did I make you cry? I'm sorry. I've been wanting to write this for a while, and I ended up writing it at midnight. I'm not used to writing in the first person in this tense, but I think it turned out well for a first shot.