My lungs are on fire, an inferno inside my chest that's nearly impossible to put out. It envelops my entire body, dousing my muscles with those blazing embers and nourishing the unadulterated terror surging through my limbs. I can hardly breathe. My pounding heart is out of control, and I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
I haven't stopped running, not even for a second, and I won't until the deafening gunfire fades away into the distance. My heavy footsteps stomp onto the hard earth and send jolts of pain up my legs, to my aching chest. Every bit of movement only adds to my overwhelming agony, but there's no time to stop.
Not until I know for sure that we're safe.
Patrick hurries along behind me, his frantic breaths echoing inside my ringing ears. It's only the two of us out here, the only two who sprinted off in this direction. I feel awful about abandoning the others, but General Armstrong told us to run, and that's exactly what we did.
God, I hope everyone else is okay back there. There wasn't really time to coordinate an efficient escape route.
Slowly but surely, the gunfire and explosions begin to dwindle, replaced with the familiar sounds of the crickets and faraway waves lapping against the riverbank. We should be safe here. It doesn't seem like anyone followed us.
I can't believe we actually made it out of that mess unscathed. It's a miracle.
A metallic tang pervades my mouth as I stop running, hysterical breaths racking my burning chest. Spots dance in the corners of my vision. Every square inch of my muscles sting and pang like never before. I don't think I've run this much since training camp, and even then, I seriously doubt it was this bad. I feel like I just finished a marathon and then some. Am I really that out of shape?
No time to fret about my lack of physical fitness. It's unlikely that we're out of the thick of it yet, but at least grenades aren't raining down on us. I think we're safe for now, and that thought alone is enough to flood my system with waves of pure relief.
Heaving a heavy sigh, I glance around the dark clearing we stumbled across, my fingers still twitching with nervous anticipation. "Well, Patrick, I think we got away," I say, voice trembling with leftover panic. "We should be safe here."
Patrick still hasn't said a word. His breathing is ragged and uneven, far worse than my own. Is he okay? I thought I was out of shape, but maybe--
"Gerard," he suddenly whimpers, frailer than a mouse.
My blood freezes to pure ice. I whirl around, a newfound terror taking hold of me, and see him start to collapse to the cold ground beneath him.
I dive out to catch his limp form, help him settle back against a tree trunk. His skin is deathly pale, shining with cold sweat, glinting in his wide, terrified eyes. His breaths are dangerously shallow, and every passing second only fuels the overwhelming fear clutching my heart.
Hot, crimson blood is oozing out of his left shoulder, and it's already soaked through most of his shirt.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Fucking shit, goddammit. Shit! What do I do?!
This is my worst nightmare come to life. My brain shuts down completely. Visceral, uncontrollable terror pulses through my veins. Heart hammers. Breathing cuts out. I can't take control of my own body, my own mind, and every moment I waste only puts Patrick in more danger.
Fuck me.
My hands shake like a madman's. I press against his shoulder in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood; nausea swirls in my stomach when the viscid liquid coats my cold skin.
YOU ARE READING
The Ghost of Him |WWII Frerard AU|
Fanfiction"You are never coming home." * * * There are some days in life you'll never forget. Your first date, perhaps, or even your first kiss. Maybe even your first experience with death, because not all of these days have to be good. Some of these day...
