I woke up lying in mud.
As rain poured down, turning the ditch into a trench of brown water and blood. My leg felt like it was on fire, and when I looked down, the bandage I’d tied around it was more red than white. I remember screaming for help, my voice breaking, but only the jungle answered back. You could hear distant gunfire, explosions and the metallic scent of death all around.
I thought I heard someone shout my name. Then, I felt hands dragging me from the ditch, rough but steady. I blinked against the rain, and when I opened my eyes again, I was flying away. I was saved.
Years passed, at least it seemed to. I was back home, walking the quiet streets of Waldorf, wearing civilian clothes that felt strange on my back. People were friendly; they nodded at me, but I noticed how they never quite looked me in the eyes. And always, just at the edge of my sight, a strange man.
At first, I thought it was a coincidence. But he was too still. Too patient. It seemed as if he never moved until I looked away.
Death. That’s what I came to call him.
I tried to brush it off, but one night at the bar, I just wanted to drown myself in cheap beer. Yet every time I glanced back, there it was, reflected in the mirror behind me, though he was nowhere to be found. I walked out. On the street, I passed a man carrying groceries. He smiled at me, politely, and then a truck ran him over at the crosswalk.
I saw the man accompanying the old man in the ambulance.
Then I started seeing him again everywhere, at the diner, at church, but no one else seemed to notice him but me.
Finally, one rainy night, I saw him standing outside my window.
“You want me? Then take me. Stop with this madness.”
The man disappeared in front of my eyes
Then, Death was inside the room. For the first time, it leaned forward, as if studying me.
And then.
I am back in the ditch.
The rain is still falling on my face. My leg is burning.
The jungle is quiet now, except for the sound of boots splashing closer.
I blink, and suddenly the man is looking at me. Death is not hiding anymore, and I understood.
I’d never left. The rescue, the years of haunted civilian life; it was all the fever dream of a dying man. The truth is simpler, and crueler.
The war never let me go.
And neither did Death.