The Healing Process
When the wound was fresh, they were thousands of miles apart. Each droplet of blood that trickled, resembled the tears he shed, many miles away across the ocean. She screamed in agony, he cried in pain.
When the wound stopped bleeding, he stopped crying. The granulating skin roughly covered the hole in his heart, temperarily replacing what he had lost.
Just when he thought he was starting to heal, an infection occured. With lack of wound care in a desert somewhere in the Sahara, her wound started pus. Oceans away, due to lack of answers and closure, his heartache began to spread.
He used alcohol to numb the pain, drowning his sorrows. She had nothing as the infection took over her body. As her temperature soared ,she wished she couldn't feel a thing. As the bottle of tequilla ran dry, he wished he could just feel something again.
She did not plan to live. He planned to die. Two suicide missions so very different yet all the same. Stubborn as they were, they were just waiting for someone else to pull the trigger for them. Rip open their wound one more time, give them permission to die. They were trained to follow orders, after all.
But somewhere, in the horn of Africa, their missions crossed paths, contradicting each other. She wouldn't let him die for her, and he wouldn't let her die for him.
"Couldn't live without you, I guess" .
There it was. That one simple line that ripped open both their wounds, exposing themselves, flesh and all.
"Then you will die with me".
A bullet to the head of the cause of their wounds, interupted their suicide missions once again.
Turns out permission to die was not granted. Permission to heal, was.