Endurance

by PDCr2O3

He'd been captured during a mission by a ruthless crime lord, tested to the limits of his endurance. Injured and sick, he'd been left as a target on a battlefield, with the final promise that he would be tracked down and taken again should he manage to survive. Now convinced he's been turned over to the enemy he faces one final test.

3. Freighted

Chapter 3. Freighted

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The gentle caress of sheet floating down on him was such a pleasant feeling. So different from what had gone before. "Mom?" he whispered. "Mom?" She used to cover him up for bed at night like that; when he was a boy or whenever he was sick. It always made him feel loved, special; feel better. She'd smile and say it was angel kisses he felt. He hurt so bad and felt worse. He could use some of those angel kisses right now, but Mom kisses were the best. She'd bestow those on his various boyhood hurts and scrapes. She'd reassure him that he would be all better, real soon, and give him a pat and send him on his way. When he was sick, there was nothing more reassuring than her cool hand resting on his forehead or cheek, letting him know she was there, and he would be okay. She would always leave him with a kiss, sometimes on his forehead and sometimes just above, in his hair. A smile flitted across the soldier's face. Mom.

The soldier's mind hovered at the edge of consciousness. He was home. Safe. A sigh of contentment, then he woke all the way. Home. How'd I get home? He wanted to call out, but a finely-honed sense of self-preservation intervened. Caution. Since he couldn't hear voices, the soldier opened his eyes and looked around. Unfamiliar. No Mom. Not home. Disappointed, he closed them.

Okay, not home. Where? Better be cautious. He raised his eyelids to peek. A quick look stolen through nearly shuttered eyes. Wide-open might garner attention. He didn't want any. Not yet. If someone noticed he was awake, then the questions would start. Again. He wanted no part of questions until he knew, friend, or foe.

The place seemed quiet. The bed. Felt like a cot, like what was in an aid station. He'd lain on more than his fair share of those. He followed that thread in his fuzzy mind. He could swear someone, several someones, had been talking to him, looking at him, touching him. He stole another look. Nobody there. He must have been imagining things.

He closed his eyes. Tired. Felt awful. Not a single bit of him didn't hurt. Wished he was back home. Wanted Mom to put her cool hand on his forehead and make it better. He drifted off.