The gunshots from earlier still echoed throughout his head. Dried blood encrusted his forehead but also fueled the flame on the wound below his ribs. His body struggled to even keep going as he crawled through the damp forest. Stefan' rifle was covered in mud from dragging it along the ground, among the fallen leaves.
His comrades were probably already back at the makeshift base camp, miles away. They were celebrating the victory, yet he cried from the distance where he lay. Only if he could make it back and have a glass of whiskey, that's what he wanted at a moment like this. But he was unable to, could barely crawl as he cried for help. His cries went unheard and the forest remained silent. All that was around was the creatures who prowled at night, who watched him with pity as he crawled.
Stefan' arms gave out and he laid there on the ground, starting to reflect on his actions. He wasn't weeping anymore — He knew death was coming. He would be a forgotten man, a lost body, a broken soul. He wasn't the man he wished he was or had been. Soon he came to the conclusion that when the sun rose again and the warmth kissed his face, he'd be a dead man. He wouldn't see home or his brother again.