A/N: So, with my depression rearing its ugly head, I needed to get some shit off my chest. Inspired by both One by Metallica and Johnny Got His Gun. Warning for overall very dark themes.
Summary: 'Please...' I thought. 'I don't want to live with this pain anymore. Kill me. Please kill me.'
I didn't know when I woke up from my coma after I was caught in a bomb blast during a terrorist attack. The last thing I remember was a loud explosion followed by searing pain, and then nothing. Nothing but darkness.
How many days had passed? Weeks?
Or was it years?
I had no way of knowing.
All I knew was that when I did wake up, I wasn't able to see. I couldn't scream, even as the horror of what had happened to me sank in. I couldn't move my arms, or my legs.
How could I, when they weren't there?
That bastard who decided to bomb the street I happened to be on had taken them from me, along with everything else.
I could hear, and I could think. But that was it. I was nothing more than a prisoner in my own body.
I heard footsteps approaching, light and clean. A nurse, from what I could tell.
She placed a hand on my head, ruffling my hair with a sniffle of pity. "I'm sorry this happened to you...no one deserves to suffer like this. I wish there was something I could do."
'There is,' I thought.
How could I live like this? It was the cruelest punishment for me to endure. I wasn't human any more.
I tapped on my pillow with my head, giving her a signal. She gasped and ran out with a yell. "Someone! Come quick! He's awake!"
More footsteps came in, these ones crisp and heavy. Military, by the sound of them.
Just what I wanted.
"It's Morse Code," someone murmured.
My prayer had been answered, and I continued to communicate in the only way I could.
'Please...' I thought.
'I don't want to live with this pain anymore. Kill me. Please kill me.'
"And he's...he's saying, 'kill me. Please kill me'."
I had never been so happy when I heard him pull out his pistol and pull the trigger.
A/N: Thank you for reading.
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