Tales From The Mind of Thomas

With strained breaths, his lungs struggle to take in air. His chest rises with great effort, the cold air scratching his throat with each inhalation. Air passing through the jagged wound in his chest casts a ghastly sucking noise—a wet, bubbling hiss that echoes from within him. With every inhale, the hissing of escaping air mocks his plight. He tilts his head backward to stare at the sky.

The clouds, clean and pristine white, drift lazily across the sky, reminding him of his childhood. He remembers pointing out different shapes in the clouds with his friends during warm summer days filled with adventure. The scent of chlorinated water where he spent many hours playing, and the late nights spent with friends, all flood back to him as his struggle for air grows harsher.

He attempts to raise himself up, but his legs grow feeble, forcing him back down against the berm of a dried riverbed. He tries to call out, his hand painfully reaching for help. His body grows frailer with every guttural gasp for air, and his lungs cough up a gurgling sound.

He turns his head to see his comrades returning fire, while he can do nothing. Looking down, he notices the bubbling blood oozing from his wound. Accepting his mortality, he lets his eyes close as his mind drifts back home. His thoughts fill with memories of his father and mother, the baseball games he played with his younger brother, and the dear friends he used to cause trouble with. His last thought is of his love. As he remembers how beautiful she looked when they said goodbye, a smile gently etches across his cheeks; his breaths slow to a standstill, and his body slumps over, peacefully fading from this mortal coil.