He told me he loves me.
You would expect me to be happy, wouldn’t you? These words, after all, are the ones I have been longing to hear for ages. Years, even. So why, you ask, am I not elated? Why do I feel like my world has come crashing down around me?
He told me he loves me….
As I lay on my back, in the dirt….
He took my hand as I felt my life slipping away, and told me right to my face that he has been an idiot all this time, never truly realizing what I meant to him. Duh! I wanted to scream at him, shout that he was damn right he was an idiot. A sodding bastard, that’s what he bloody well is. We could have had weeks, months together, or even several years. Screw the military and its anti-fraternization laws! He’s gotten away with it before, you know.
And the worst part?
He thought this was supposed to make me feel better! Feel better that I was dying and never got to know what his kisses feel like? Never got to know the exhilarating excitement of his body pressed against mine? Bullshit. He knows better than that, he ought to. I swear to god he is just doing this to torture me, taunting me with the what-ifs and maybes that haunt my last thoughts. But I know deep down that’s not true. He’s not doing it on purpose….
But that doesn’t make me feel any better.
He looks at me expectantly. He knows I love him too, and he is waiting for me to tell him so. I open my mouth. His eyes grow slightly pained as he braces himself for what he knows will be my last words.
And I know they are not what he expects.
I close my eyes.
That’s the last I remember.