Breath rattles in his throat. Blood choking him, staining his mouth dark red. The taste of rust and copper penetrates every thought he has, making it impossible to deny the inevitable. He knew it would come sooner or later, the only question he had ever had was when. When would darkness finally sweep his legs out from beneath him? When would he feel the tell tale grip of ice rushing over him?
Time.
It was something he no longer had. Precious seconds slipped through his tired fingers. Struggling, grasping, trying to keep them from flying to fast. There are still things to say, people he has to see one last time before his eyes close. Darkness is descending, latching onto him with it’s long claws. The galaxy is disappearing and he’s struggling to keep himself going.
In. Out. In. Out.
Lungs attempt to suck in air, but instead they fill with blood. Puncture wounds make it hard for any air to stay inside of his rapidly diminishing body. His limbs are filled with lead. Hand warmed metal sits in his palm, his fingers desperately clutching at the grip. Death is coming too quickly, and all he has to greet it with is his gun.
His gun and some ammo. Not that the ammo will do much good.
Inhale. Struggle against the rapidly fading fire in his chest. Alone. He never thought he’d do this alone. Where was Kahlee? Liam? Where were the people he had grown to love? The people he had fought for for so long? Had they left him here forever?
The constant pulling of breath takes too much energy. His body is forcing him to slow down, to take one movement at a time. Pull. Breath. Pull. Breath. All he knows is that he can’t die here alone. Not with a piece of blood stained metal and silence for company.
Arm refuses to stop working. His fingers fall from the gun. Eyes are open, but all he can see is black. Blood gurgling in his throat, he turns to spit the thick, rust flavored liquid out of his mouth, his throat working violently to expel the taste.
Let go.
It’s time to let go.
No more breath. His lungs are already full. There’s nothing more he can do, but pray. Pray that maybe one day they will find him. Alone. With his blood covered gun and his cold limbs. Maybe one day they’ll find the man they called husband and father, sitting in a pool of his own blood. Struggling against his death.
