Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

before I-

I knew I was in trouble when the constant stinging of my bullet wound ebbed away, replaced by warmth and lightheadedness. The shocking adrenaline had long been gone as I'd sat there, back against the cold tire of a truck that I happened upon in the bustle of this war zone.

I'd tried staunching the blood flow as soon as I saw my palm slick with red blood when reaching down at touch my abdomen, confused at first as to why it had stung so badly when crouching down.

In the heat of the moment, I'd only focused on not getting my skull bashed in or punctured with the scattering ray of bullets that there were other parts of me that were vital to living, too.

Breathing through it as best as I could, the snug calmness that could only be compared to waking up in the morning to a light fan blowing the cool air as you snuggle closer into the sheets that had insulated your body's heat all night long.

I longed to crawl back into bed, gear and all, I didn't care. Slip under the sheets and pretend that my wounds didn't happen. Pretend that sleep was calling my name and not death.

What would happen to my body? Would they bury it like all the others in a commemorative cemetery or burn it? Would I become ash like the gunpowder encasing my dying body?

If I am to be buried, what would my plaque even say? My real name or just "Ghost"? Would it have some brief explanation, honoring my sacrifice like KIA? No. I wanted it simple. Just dates and my name. Nothing else.

I needed to tell someone what I wanted.

I hadn't told anyone of my wishes post mortem, too cocky that it wouldn't ever happen: death. Me dying had been an afterthought, left on the back burner to be stirred at another time, letting it stew. Maybe I had been too anxious about the concept of death, that's why I pushed it all down, suppressing it.

From what I could tell, it tasted fine, death. A bit too salty with the blood caking my tongue and teeth, but it was almost like a home-cooked meal to fill up an empty stomach after coming home with sore bones and tense muscles.

Hearty, consoling, soothing.

It was getting harder to breathe now, that was my main complaint about dying, and I pulled down my balaclava to see if that would alleviate at least the heat inside of my lungs.

Coughing up more blood, it splattered around and on my worn boots. I liked those boots. Would they bury me in them if I had asked? What would I wear for my final attire, or would it even matter if I were to end up in an urn anyway?

The agonized screams and yells for help, the shots being fired all around me, the helicopter flying above my head... all of it, began fading away. It really was just like falling asleep. Maybe if I just pretended the wetness traveling down my side was remnants of a shower, and the sounds around me were from a movie.

I was on a couch, falling asleep after taking a much needed shower, watching a movie with a war scene. That's it.

Maybe the warmth I was experiencing in my arms radiated from your body as we fell asleep together on that same couch. I'd had my fill of many home-cooked meals, but one that I'd never had the pleasure of tasting were those lips that could easily make me slip.

A simple, sweet 'hi' made my knees weak.

Your contagious laugh made my own lips crack into a stupid, teenaged-boy grin even though no one could see it.

I didn't mean to not tell you. I didn't mean to keep it to myself.

I just thought with my past and the way I shut myself out, why would anyone waste their time on someone so broken? Why would anyone break through that wall I'd meticulously built to reveal someone who didn't any one of deserve it?

You deserved someone better.

You deserved someone without any cumbersome barriers or tragic stories.

So, I kept quiet and was content in watching your eyes light up when we talked as you sewed me up those few times. Maybe I got hurt on purpose just so I could feel those nimble fingers on skin that didn't deserve such tender care.

I didn't carry many regrets upon my heavy, scarred shoulders, but there was one that felt the most burdensome now, of all times.

It was a simple one but paramount all the same.

It was the fact that I hadn't grabbed you before I left and told you. You'd said goodbye to me as I left, as I walked through those doors for the last time unknowingly, with the words I wished I'd said now.

They would have tasted so sweet to say, so much more filling than those home-cooked meals. It would have been like having a dessert when your stomach said 'no more' to tell you. It would have been uncomfortable but so rewarding.

I should have had that dessert, and I'm sorry I didn't go through with it.

Tell you everything.

Before I