Muted

The stench of smoke, sulfur, and finality clung to the very essence of my being, a grim shroud that I could neither shake off nor ignore. The piercing pain that had stung me moments before, an uninvited agony, had thrown me to the ground, casting me aside like a lifeless husk. As I lay there, I watched through a haze of pain as my comrades advanced forward, their footsteps rhythmic and determined, thinking I had succumbed to the call of eternity.

Inside me, a tempest raged—a heart thrumming to the darkest, most insane cadences. It was as if the drums of war had found a chamber within my chest and were relentless in their echoing beats, each pulse a reminder of the thin line between life and death.

With each gasp, the taste of iron flooded my mouth. The weight of memories—those of home and moments past—pressed upon my consciousness like a monolithic pillar, each one a stone in the cairn of my life.

Survival, a dance between fate and will, now guides my spirit. I can feel the tendrils of life, those invisible strings that connect us all to the world of the living, pulling me back, anchoring my soul to this reality. It seems the ruthless storyteller, the unfathomable weaver of human destinies, has penned more chapters for me in the great book of life. I accept this gift with profound gratitude and resolved to move forward, embracing the life that I had so narrowly reclaimed.