Roach
Alive.
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The laundry room. The nauseating smell of medicine. A drip. Bandages all over his body. The treated wound on his abdomen is a mark from the bullet they pulled from him. The charred skin ached at the slightest movement. The phone lay on his chest. Eyes up to the ceiling.
He barely survived Shepard's betrayal. Evacuated by a team. Ghost is the two hundredth.
Roach remembers everything. The general shooting a lieutenant. Ripping off gear to put out the fire eating him alive. Screaming in unbearable pain. Tears from acrid smoke and burned skin. Collapsing next to what was left of Ghost — a badge and charred rags.
The last correspondence with you was a knife in his heart. Your words were correct. He knew that. But how can reason shout down the soul?
Memory eventually ceases to be only a pain...Roach whispered, barely moving his lips. How long until he stops blaming himself? For not making it in time. For failing. For surviving when Ghost didn't. His heart skipped a beat. Hot tears rolled down. The lieutenant's voice. His hand pulling Roach to evac. A face he'll never see again. After the correspondence, you decided to check on him. You quietly entered. Roach lay on the couch, tears flowing, breathing intermittent and painful. He barely turned his head. Eyes cloudy, red, but alive. So much words can't convey. He barely called audibly: Honey... So pathetic. So pleading. So human. But he didn't care. He just wanted solace.