I do not own bleach

Stage 3 – Letting Go

The kids forgot about their comrade pretty quick, or at least acted like they did. No one brought up his name, whatever it was, and no one tried to pick a fight with him either. He had a hunch The Sergeant had something to do with that small factor. Probably because no one even wanted to sit within the same general area as him. They were angry, perhaps, that he got away scot-free with shooting his own comrade. His jaw starting hurting. Probably from the beating he took the other day.

'Get over it.' He thought to himself. It was unbelievable that these guys were supposed to be warriors protecting their country. It was just one guy, and he was going to die sooner or later anyways. He shifted uncomfortably within a little indentation within the trench. It was a cold, dirty, stench-filled prison of a bed, but at least he could close his eyes without waking up to some psycho trying to shoot his head off.

Silence. Silence, at least for the next few hours or so. Then blasts, and killing, and explosions, and more killing, and maybe some bullets, but definitely more killing. Everything was getting all-too familiar now. It felt like this was the only life he's lived. What if the war ends? What happens then? Eternal silence? That would suck. On one hand, he wanted the war to end so he could get out of Europe, but on the other hand, what would he do once he was done with warfare? Boredom, laziness, and a normal life? What was normal?

A missile landed near their trench, and while the kids were running around, trying to fire back, Grimmjow opened his eyes and looked around.

'About time.' He scoffed as he stood up from his bed and loaded his gun up. Those Germans were trying to just end the trench warfare and probably try to bomb the trenches to oblivion. His heart rate sped up, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as a chilling jolt shot up and down his spine. The jolt made him move his feet, it made him forget that his shoes were too tight, it made him forget why he was fighting, and it made him insanely happy. So happy, in fact, he didn't want anyone else to rain on his parade, he ignored the fact he was in a war, ignored that he was just a man, and smiled. The jolt tensed his jaw up until his face was stiff with laughter. It was about time the jolt returned. It's about damn time.

With every bullet that went his way, he fired fearlessly back, as if mere bullets couldn't even scratch him. He was just too goddamned happy to acknowledge the bullets and bombs. His happiness was his fearlessness. Insanely, abnormally, psychotically content with himself. What made him grin ear to ear like this? He couldn't explain it beyond 'the jolt'. This thrilling sensation of adrenalin and pure destructive fun.

His weight was disturbed as someone pulled him back under the trench with one swift tug. The Sergeant was yelling, but nothing was coherent. He yelled, and yelled. Grimm's smile disappeared; his fun was disturbed, and he went back to his angry, pouting face of disdain. Then, as an ordinary man again, The Sergeant's voice became clear all of the sudden.

"You crazy bastard!" He shouted into his ear. Well, that wasn't anything new. "You're bleeding bullets!" He angrily screamed. Grimm looked down at his body. And, as an ordinary man, the numbing drug of thrill passed, and his mortal pain sensations took over like a tidal wave. His arms, his stomach, his leg; all hurt like a bitch. This stinging, heavy, twisting pain grabbed the wounds and hammered nails into them. He wanted to scream in agony, but his body was screaming for him. It screamed so loud, it was louder than The Sergeant's now trailing voice.

Grimm's world went black. He just fell into a bottomless pit of nothing. Like a deep circle of empty space, he fell silently, and quietly.

He dreamed of home. Actually, he dreamed of the past. His disgusting, agonizingly slow past. At the orphanage, he always picked fights. He would always get into trouble. He would never sit still. He remembered the other kids, and he remembered the care-takers. And he dreamed farther back. Farther than he'd ever remember consciously. Mother. The mother he never actually knew. The mother that abandoned him. The mother he never wanted to meet. The mother he lacked. She smelled like soap. She was tall and slender. Everything else about her was a mystery. All that was for sure was the soap scent. It was a waxy, scrunch-the-nose aroma.

He awakened. He tried to shift, but his body moaned pitifully. It was quiet again. The bombardment passed. He took one hell of a beating. His jaw throbbed. Was it hurting before? The Sergeant walked in and sat down in a rotting old chair next to his make-shift bed.

"That was a really stupid thing to do." He said with a seething undertone. He was pissed. Grimm didn't want to reply. He was too busy trying to force his body to stop hurting. "It's a miracle you're still alive…" But Grimm had to cut in here.

"Miracle? Miracle my ass. I survive because that's the way things are. The strong live, the weak die out." He sharply replied in a swift and clear-cut voice. The Sergeant stared sternly at his soldier and heaved.

"The weak need be protected by the strong." He clasped his hands together and slouched over for a more comfortable position. The chair whimpered a soft creak under his moving weight. So deathly still was the atmosphere.

"I didn't join to protect the weak. I joined to be strong." He gruffly retorted. His body was starting to go numb with pain, but he refused to show any signs of discomfort in front of The Sergeant. Pain was weakness.

"I know that, but one day, you'll realize that strength alone won't keep you alive."

"Just drop it." Grimm cut him short. He sensed a lecture coming, and didn't want to hear it. Not now, not ever. "I'm tired. Get out." He was seething from a searing sore spawning from the bullet wound in his leg. Angry that he was shot, angry at the bastard that shot him, and angry for being useless.

"Let the tough-guy act go. It'll kill you." With those last words, he left the room, leaving Grimm alone once again. The sore's stabbing sensation seeped through and down his leg. For once, he just wanted to scream like hell. It hurt. His arms were dead, his stomach was worthless, and his leg refused to just let him sleep.

His jaw throbbed softly.

a/n: This chapter took a long time. My bad. I'm really happy with the results, though. I hope you guys liked it too.