50 Seconds Left
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Notes: Inspired after reading one of Fiercest' ficlet.
Don't own the characters. Review if you may.
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Here.
Do you remember?
When someone fires the first gun that echoes across the empty blue sky and when the countless fast bullets rain down the ground after. Deafening noises of explosion goes simultaneously, not one by one, inflicting unexplainable destruction to the poor creatures on Earth. Wails and endless screams blow your ears, blood becomes like rain and there are two formidable guns beside your forehead.
Then it becomes blank and the monsters in your head come chasing after.
Earth tremble behind your back, dirt fly around and fire all over the city fills your blurry vision.
When the feeling of numbness is taking all over your aching body and when you know that the blood spilling on the ground is yours, realization hit you like a speeding car, but you don't panic.
You simply don't.
You know, too well, the cycle of life.
You can't perform miracle on yourself. The metallic arm you often rely on was blasted sixteen meters away from you, across the rubbles and bombed broken down houses. Giant boulders trap your legs to the ground, effectively pinning it, crushing it and destroying it. You scream, with all your might, your strength, in an effort to vent out all the pain you feel in wounds and in your once mighty heart.
And then you graze into the sky and count how many clouds are still there. There are three gray clouds, and though there is an eerie sadness hanging around them, you smile because it will be the last thing you'll see. You know you should be better than this, stronger and a lot more capable…but you look into your empty left hand, almost shattered, no longer recognizable. And that's when you know the hope has leaved you.
You know that when you're gone, someone will cry. You fear that when the time comes, no warm hands would rest on her shoulders and no silly smile to take away her sadness, that when someone asks if she is okay, she'll try to hide her tears and live in a blunt lie.
There are many fantasies you build along the way, but not even half of it are granted.
She is still your friend.
Not your wife.
Because the last time you went home, you didn't bring up the courage, again, to tell her about the golden ring that has been residing in your pocket for half a year.
And a part of you, still, hold in the belief that you are not suppose to die today. Not when he is still in that freaking, hollow armour.
Who has forgotten the feel of the rain, the taste of your mother's curry and the warmth in holding each other's hands.
You have made it your goal to make him remember how.
And you remember all the promises you had muttered under your breath, when you thought no one was looking or no one hears you, all the dreams you have for her, for him and the justice for her. You remember the each and everyday scars your body and mind take at every mishaps you encounter at every corner of the road.
But you smile again, bitterly, as the thousand moments of the past years flooded through your memories, when you use to grin at him everytime he gets a little cheeky, a little angrier, when she twirls around at something or anything that glitters, everytime you win a fight, he flashes her photos, he gets worried or you hear his arrogant and biting remarks twice at Sunday.
You cry your last but not because you are afraid of dying. Of humiliation. And of losing. You feel your heart being torn apart because of regrets. You got mad at yourself for not saying the things you could have a million times, you take for granted the days spent for doing nothing when you could have been with them.
You are not strong enough, you realize later, when your breathing gets ragged and when you look into your failures. But you hope that somehow, when your gone, they would remember something good when they pay respects to the marking on your grave.
There is no one who can save you and you know they are too late.
You close your eyes, slowly.
And think of a better way to greet your mother.