Piercing bright blues and hues of red invade my irises as its been a fortnight since the light has set ablaze upon my flesh.
Fisted hands probe my face in an attempt to relieve the momentary blindness as my legs stumble from the trenches
of empirical conflict.
Existent but not yet sentient, flat greetings are granted to the passerby’s conveyed in a voice so monotone, a double glance trails
after; sneers of my brashness follows.
Expectancy of robotic perfection revives the embers with a scorching blast, sending myself back into the battle
from whence I’ve just evaded. Onlookers ogle the wounds gained from the first line of fire; bullet holes penetrate my clavicle with each slight tossed my way.
Caught off guard by the sudden attack, I stumble back towards the safety of my trench. A brief visit from panic carries adrenaline through my blood; tumescent veins sprouting up my forearms like a perennial vine.
Within seconds I remember: addressing the wounds is primary for the chances of survival. I reach for my first aid kit just as an explosion sets off. In the haze of the smog from the blast, the intruders collect my weak body and drag me away from my safe place.
Though I am groggy, I manage to make out pieces of their plot.
“..skipping his meds again…”
Lucky for them, I pass out.
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