wet blood soaked gravel and the stench of struggle, it's the closest thing to freedom maverick jones has ever had.
as he lays in the dirt with shrapnel wounds in his jaw, he realizes he will die with these self made shackles on. along with the passing desire for a cigarette.
life doesn't flash by in the scary montage like media has romanticized. jones' realizes death often happens without fanfare. a bullet to the head often doesn't leave room for dramatics.
but he isn't given that privilege. there is still feeling in his legs and a conscious to remember his training.
he stands and he walks. walks over toppled corpses of people who could of been. he recognizes a few faces, favorites even. the sight doesn't have him tearing at the earth and begging god for an impossible change, jones was far past that.
he doesn't think too hard about the purpose of it all, of war. the reason for so much violence. if he ever uncovers the answer it might keep him up at night. steal away the last remaining hours he savors. and he stops looking at the ground, lest he sees something that ruins the afterglow of survival.
the sky is overcast, near morning, jones observes. the type of color used to depict some meaningful emotion. jones almost heaves.
the helicopter that tears through the sky signals gives no sense of relief when he is alone. not like it has many times before. no sense of end. the fight has carried over long after jones leaves that red field. valleys of blood terrorize him in his dreams. drown him in a mourning long overdue.
he wakes up wanting a cigarette.
