Wounded warrior

The first thing I lost was my balance. The second was my breath. The third… was my hope. My legs gave way without warning, and I hit the ground so hard the world shattered into fragments of sound and shadow. A sharp gasp burned my throat, but nothing came out. My friend kept walking, unaware, his voice fading like a distant radio signal swallowed by the night. Something inside me knew: You are on your own now. The twilight sky hung low above me—deep, bruised, merciless. My eyes refused to close, forced wide open by pain and pure fear. Everything felt unreal, as if I had been yanked out of my own life and dropped into someone else’s nightmare. I could feel warm blood pulsing from my body… then cooling… then thickening. A slow, sticky surrender. The cold ground cradled me in the most heartless way. I could taste metal on my tongue. My breaths came out in broken pieces—sharp, shallow, desperate. Is this how it ends? Alone? On a night that didn’t even warn me? Footsteps. Soft at first. Then growing louder. Closer. They stopped inches from where I lay. A shadow fell across my body, stretching long and monstrous under the streetlight’s dying glow. Voices followed—trembling, panicked whispers. “Is that Innocent?” “God… is he bleeding?” “What happened to him?” “Is he… is he still breathing?” They spoke about me as if I were already gone. None of them dared to touch me. Fear kept them frozen. They looked at my body but didn’t see me—the boy, the man, the soul fighting to stay inside a flesh that was failing. My vision began to blur at the edges, black creeping in like ink dropped in water. Then the flood came. My life didn’t flash—it exploded. Moments fired past my eyes like lightning: A child learning to walk. A teenager searching for purpose. A man stumbling through mistakes. Regret. Love. Loss. Laughter. Pain. All of it rushing backward, faster, faster, until I was small again—helpless, innocent, untouched by the cruelty that shaped me. I wanted to scream, Stop! Not like this. Not now. But my body refused me. And then—through the roaring silence—came the one voice strong enough to anchor me. My father. Not his face, not his hands… just his voice. Deep. Calm. Unshakeable. The one memory that refused to fade. “No matter what challenges you face, always find the strength to rise above.” At that moment—between life slipping away and death reaching for me—his words became the only thing keeping my heart beating. Silence. It wrapped itself around me so tightly I couldn’t tell whether I was still breathing or already gone. My vision flickered in and out like a dying bulb. Every heartbeat felt borrowed — every inhale, stolen. Somewhere beyond the darkness, the world kept moving. Cars passed. Dogs barked. Someone laughed in the distance. Life continued, shamelessly indifferent to the fact that mine was slipping through my fingers like loose sand. Then pain hit me. Not the sharp kind. The deep, crushing kind — the kind that makes your spirit tremble because it feels too close to the end. A burning shot through my ribs. My skull throbbed. My body jerked involuntarily as if trying to pull me back from the edge. Am I really dying? Is this what it feels like? The crowd’s whispers grew louder. “He’s getting cold…” “Don’t touch him, what if he’s dead?” “Call someone! Anyone!” “Is he still moving?” Their fear made my fear worse. I tried to lift my hand — just a little, just enough to show I was still here — but my fingers only twitched weakly against the b****y ground. The small sound it made was swallowed by the night. My throat tightened. The taste of iron flooded my mouth. I attempted a breath, and pain stabbed through my chest like a hot blade. A new voice broke through the circle. Sharpened. Commanding. “Move! All of you, move back!” Footsteps pushed closer — urgent, heavy, confident. A pair of shoes stopped right beside me. I felt a hand hover above my shoulder, trembling slightly, unsure whether to help or to pray. “Innocent… hey… hey, look at me. Look at me!” The voice cracked — familiar, scared, desperate. Twice. My friend. The same one who left me moments earlier without looking back. Now he knelt beside me, breathing fast, panicked. “Oh God… what have I done…” His hands shook violently. “Stay with me, broer. Stay with me, please…” I wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault. I wanted to tell him not to be afraid. But my mouth refused to move. Suddenly, the world tilted. I felt myself being lifted. Pain shot through me so violently I nearly blacked out again. “Don’t pick him up like that!” someone shouted. “You’ll break him!” “He needs an ambulance!” “Ambulance where? It’s Finetown — it’ll take forever!” I heard all of it… and none of it. Their voices blurred into one long echo. A desperate, confused choir over a dying body. Twice pressed a cloth onto my wound. Blood soaked through it instantly, warm and heavy. “Brother… stay awake. Stay awake! Do not close your eyes!” I tried. I tried so damn hard. But the darkness pulled harder. My vision tunneled again — narrowing, tightening — until all I could see was Twice’s face, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, reflecting the streetlights like broken glass. The same friend who walked away. The same friend who came back too late. The same friend now begging the night not to take me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry I left you. I should’ve been here. I should’ve—” His words faded as another memory rose inside me. Not of him. Not friends. Of my mother. Her voice, soft and trembling, from years ago: “You are stronger than your worst day.” Those words mixed with my father’s, blending into the single thread holding me to life. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed — thin, faint, but real. Hope. Weak, but still alive. As my eyes finally closed, not out of surrender but exhaustion, I let one thought settle in the remaining corner of my mind: I wasn’t born for death. Not tonight.