I still miss them. All of them. I miss how Kowalski always thought of some long, winded explanation to things, Private's giggle and girly obsessions, Rico's l’amour of dynamite. I miss how close I felt to them, how sometimes I could almost read their minds. I miss joking around with them, watching films together, and Shirtless Ninjas.
Isn't it unfair how we never realize how much these things mean to us until they're gone?
I wish I had thought about it before--before what happened. I suppose now your saying: "what did happen? C'mon, Skipper, toi can trust us. Tell the story!"
I will, if toi really want me to. It isn't the sort of story that leaves toi feeling warm and fuzzy and happy on the inside. It's plus of the story that makes toi feel alone and depressed and cold. But if toi want to hear it, toi can. Feel free to read this half-crazed scrawl I'm écriture before I slip away. Run away into the light, the same way Kowalski did three and a half years ago......
It started on a normal day. We were in our apartment together, playing cards. Well, Kowalski, Rico and I were. Private was out somewhere. The park, to be exact. I remember. I remember every detail of that fateful day.
"Do toi have a six?" Kowalski asked, turning to me.
I nodded and slid one across the table, tableau to him. My mind wasn't really on the game. I had a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
That's when Private burst in. "Skipper!"
"Yes, Private?" I asked, turning to face him.
That's when I noticed the blood on his face.
It was smeared on his forehead and the left side of his face. A trickle of it was running into his eye. It caught on his eyelashes, then ran down his check like a crimson tear when he blinked. A dried streak of it stained his light blond hair.
I jumped up and ran over to him. "Private! What happened?"
Private a dit something incoherent and crumpled to the floor.
I knelt down suivant to him. "Kowalski, get a wet washcloth."
Kowalski obeyed quickly, running to the bathroom and coming back with a bleach-stained, soaking-wet washcloth.
I took it from him and began to clean off Private's face, looking for the source of the blood. I soon found it: a cut that had been hidden par his bangs. If the Slash had been only a centimeter to the right, it would have cut a major artery right in half. Private would have bled to death before he got here.
I finished wiping off his face and shook him gently. "Private?"
Private's ice blue eyes cracked open slightly. "Skipper?" he murmured.
"You alright, soldier?"
He sat up slowly. I noticed some blood caked in his eyebrow. "I think so."
"What happened?"
His eyes widened with remembrance. "Oh! Oh, Skipper, it was horrible. I was walking to the park, and a police officer stepped in front of me and told me to get back to my house immediately and hide in a safe, locked area with a phone to call 911. So I was going back here when this man stepped in front of me, grabbed me, and slashed me across the face, so I kicked him and ran back here...." Private broke down sobbing.
At that moment, an explosion shook the house.
Kowalski crouched down suivant to us, his eyes wide with fear. Rico looked around wildly. His red hair whipped around his face, giving him a strange, sinister look.
"What the duece?" I exclaimed, jumping to my feet.
Another explosion racked the house, this one closer. Me and Kowalski shared a look.
This was not good.
Isn't it unfair how we never realize how much these things mean to us until they're gone?
I wish I had thought about it before--before what happened. I suppose now your saying: "what did happen? C'mon, Skipper, toi can trust us. Tell the story!"
I will, if toi really want me to. It isn't the sort of story that leaves toi feeling warm and fuzzy and happy on the inside. It's plus of the story that makes toi feel alone and depressed and cold. But if toi want to hear it, toi can. Feel free to read this half-crazed scrawl I'm écriture before I slip away. Run away into the light, the same way Kowalski did three and a half years ago......
It started on a normal day. We were in our apartment together, playing cards. Well, Kowalski, Rico and I were. Private was out somewhere. The park, to be exact. I remember. I remember every detail of that fateful day.
"Do toi have a six?" Kowalski asked, turning to me.
I nodded and slid one across the table, tableau to him. My mind wasn't really on the game. I had a feeling in my gut that something was wrong. Horribly wrong.
That's when Private burst in. "Skipper!"
"Yes, Private?" I asked, turning to face him.
That's when I noticed the blood on his face.
It was smeared on his forehead and the left side of his face. A trickle of it was running into his eye. It caught on his eyelashes, then ran down his check like a crimson tear when he blinked. A dried streak of it stained his light blond hair.
I jumped up and ran over to him. "Private! What happened?"
Private a dit something incoherent and crumpled to the floor.
I knelt down suivant to him. "Kowalski, get a wet washcloth."
Kowalski obeyed quickly, running to the bathroom and coming back with a bleach-stained, soaking-wet washcloth.
I took it from him and began to clean off Private's face, looking for the source of the blood. I soon found it: a cut that had been hidden par his bangs. If the Slash had been only a centimeter to the right, it would have cut a major artery right in half. Private would have bled to death before he got here.
I finished wiping off his face and shook him gently. "Private?"
Private's ice blue eyes cracked open slightly. "Skipper?" he murmured.
"You alright, soldier?"
He sat up slowly. I noticed some blood caked in his eyebrow. "I think so."
"What happened?"
His eyes widened with remembrance. "Oh! Oh, Skipper, it was horrible. I was walking to the park, and a police officer stepped in front of me and told me to get back to my house immediately and hide in a safe, locked area with a phone to call 911. So I was going back here when this man stepped in front of me, grabbed me, and slashed me across the face, so I kicked him and ran back here...." Private broke down sobbing.
At that moment, an explosion shook the house.
Kowalski crouched down suivant to us, his eyes wide with fear. Rico looked around wildly. His red hair whipped around his face, giving him a strange, sinister look.
"What the duece?" I exclaimed, jumping to my feet.
Another explosion racked the house, this one closer. Me and Kowalski shared a look.
This was not good.
