Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

paradise. (soap)

We finally made it.

Paradise.

At least, that's what we called it.

Our home.

A quaint cottage, secluded by a dense bubble of trees and hugged by walls of vines so thick that the redness of bricks underneath could barely be seen peaking through the greenery. The cobblestone pathway that led there, the one she always dreamed of having, served as jumping obstacles for wild imaginations that now pretended those same slabs of rocks to be lily pads, with their tiny bodies jumping like little, green frogs.

Tiny feet ran circles around us, the bushes of flowers dancing with them as laughter filled our garden – a spectacle I was currently so privileged to relish, to allow it to swallow me whole.

True paradise.

Happiness. Finally. After the treacherous years of shedding blood with the hands that were now in charge of only yielding life instead of taking it.

Auburn hair that burned like hellfire in the sun's rays, a physical representation of the temper that matched, while wearing a pastel yellow sundress that made her seem more like sunshine, she leaned back on her hands, watching the children she carried run amuck.

I loved telling her she was the fire that kept my soul alive just to see her hazel eyes roll to the back of her head.

A warm breeze whispered through those copper curls she usually kept in a tight bun, bringing in the sweet smell of perfume that imitated the scent of summer oranges into my welcoming nostrils.

As if she could sense me staring, her head turned to give me one one those soft, knowing smiles. God, those plump lips I'd quickly grown addicted to.

My mouth, in my opinion, only deserved an unlimited amount of sanitization with how much vulgarity had caked inside, worn rugged from the use of dirty jokes and even more impure vocabulary. But with her, when she graced my lips with her own, all sense of the crude me washed away in a mess of resignation, seemingly unsoiled and whole.

With her, the scars were worshipped with treasuring fingers, an insatiable longing to touch more.

With her, my greedy, imperfect hands and my equally hungry mouth could always speak in volumes my brain failed to sometimes convey.

Actions spoke louder for both of us.

And it was no surprise that the two children sprinting barefoot in the dew-varnished grass came as quickly as they did.

In this sanctuary we'd fought tooth and nail in building, we forgot about how scarred tissue had permanently been carved into us, and memories of war only resided in dreams, scared away by a comforting caress from unafraid hands.

We were one another's homes, not ever having to panic over when we'd obtain safety or when we'd have to scrabble for a break just to return home for however much time could be allotted. A day, a week, maybe a month if we were fortunate. Whatever we could get.

But now, that was no longer a worry.

An unfamiliar, yet recognizable, sting bit at my sternum. It was not the same sensation I'd usually get when a cloud of memories gained control of my thoughts, images of naked limbs twisted in warm sheets to entice my stomach to knot up with a yearning she could only relieve.

I was no stranger to pain. Bullet holes, stitches, and I were practically best mates at this point. Well, not anymore. Not with our sanctuary housing nothing but blissful ignorance of the world outside our new normal.

It happened again, causing my hand to lift right to the spot, an attempt to rub away the growing tension as if it were rooted there. Branching off to the rest of my chest, my ribcage was becoming twigs and splinters to pierce through my lungs, restricting my breathing.

She sat in the same spot, her expression unreadable.

I quickly scanned around the garden to see why the sounds of our children's laughter had suddenly vanished only to find the grounds filled with wilting petals, browns and reds instead of the accumulation of clear sky blues, sunshine yellows, and amethyst purples. Like autumn had struck within the last few seconds.

My gaze found hers again, my breaths more difficult to catch. As if my hand could claw right into my chest to try and grab my escaping breaths physically, my fingers dug at the muscles beneath my shirt.

"He's crashing," her lips mouthed, but it didn't match her voice or the look in her eyes. Her angelic voice didn't send the right kind of goosebumps to raise the hairs on my arms as it sounded panicked and severe.

I tried replying, to mutter out my confusion, but all that would squeeze out of my throat was a strangled groan.

The ground beneath my legs shook violently, causing some of the bricks to dislodge themselves from our home and clunk onto the soft dirt as the creeping plants shrunk away from keeping the blocks in place.

"I can't find the source of the bleeding," another strange voice shouted from the sky this time.

From the moment I'd winced up at the sun shining brighter above us, she was gone when my gaze traveled back down.

"Clamp," someone else ordered as a web of cracks began breaking the ground apart in large potholes. A bush of scarlet roses her careful hands had planted fell into one of the many abysses.

An invisible grip wrapped around both my arms, pinning me down to the ground where I could only envision the sun, that blinding white light, watching it as it got closer and closer. It glared down at me, as it tried to eat away at my eyes as the pain in my chest became an unbearable, scorching agony.

And then... nothing.

I only heard the rush of hurried hands, slick with blood, trying to stop the bleeding in my chest, right where I'd felt it in the midst of tranquility. That sweet spot between my navel and sternum. Somewhere in that field of wretched trauma, a bullet gave me an asylum but also ate away at it, ruining me like it ruined that flawless home.

The perfection of paradise, now tarnished by darkness.

It was so nice while it lasted.