Living Dead
Soryong's eyes – eye, he reminded himself bitterly – fluttered open as the sun hit him from the open curtain of the hospital wing and he immediately felt the searing pain. Throbbing. Pounding. Like the stomps of his hunting dogs against the lush grass of the forest behind his mansion back in England. Strong. Heavy. Harrowing. His subconsciously grazed his bandaged face with his right arm, the prickling sensation as his fingers came in contact with his flesh a constant reminder that he is still alive. Battered and bruised. Without an arm and an eye. But alive. And at that moment, there was no greater joy for him. Yet at the same time, a shooting pain in his heart kept him up. Nagging at him, clawing at him like the way his comrades clawed and clung for life as that....beast tore them apart. He balled his fist and brought them down to his side. Whatever the reason might be, the fact stood that he had failed his mission. He had failed the death eaters and he had failed his father. And he knew that the pang in his heart and in the pit of his stomach were a product of this acknowledgement; of this failure; of this shame he brought upon his family and himself. He closed his eyes – eye. eye. eye. eye. He repeated the word in his head as if it's a chant, as if it's going to suddenly make the pain go away – and took a shaky breath, his lips trembling with unspoken emotion and agony. His face scrunched up in anguish. And when he opened it again, only whiteness welcomed him. The whiteness of the hospital wing and the sterile smell making him sick and driving him mad. He never belonged in whiteness, in pureness. He is as black as tar and he tainted everything he touched. He smiled ruefully at that thought before slipping back involuntarily to sleep, the exhaustion wearing him out.
