The Way It's Not Supposed To Be
Pairing: None here really, the pairing will take place in the story that follows this one (My Last Breath).
Rated: Pg for some swearing
Warnings: Ermm… profane language?
Legal stuff: Well... I think it's obvious but I'll state it anyway. I down own them! Please don't sue me? I'm poor... seriously... ;;
Author notes: This is actually the prequel to My Last Breath. This piece turned out kind of humorous (in that dark humor sort of way) so I was entertained. It's kind of light compared to My Last Breath but oh well -; Enjoy anyway.
Also, to check the status of other stories I promised were coming out, look at my bio page on found here: www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net/u/349574/
Feedback: I'll admit it, I'm a review whore.
Thanks to: Lys and Kitty! you lovelies are the best!
You can't see bullets with the naked eye once they've been fired, you can only hear them and feel them. Unfortunately when adrenaline is rushing through your system like cars on a racetrack, you only become distantly aware of said bullets. I didn't see it, I didn't hear it and I didn't even feel it until it was a little too late. I thought I had gotten off scott free until I realized that the "sudden hit" I took to my stomach wasn't really me running into something, but rather the result of what happens when a .45 is fired at your midsection with a frighteningly accurate aim.
Okay, fine. I'm a dirty liar and that's not actually how it happened. In reality what went down was this: the guy firing at me was a painfully terrible shot and what hit me was actually a rebound bullet bouncing off metal and not him firing with anything even resembling accuracy. It's, of course, because of that that I can only express how irate I am over the whole situation now by allowing a burst of expression to leave my mouth in a most mellifluous and gentlemanly manor.
My teammates, thanks to my ridiculous habit of polluting my lungs with potentially lethal toxins, are several yards ahead of me and just about out of earshot. Not that it would matter if they were any closer due to the fact that the pain gripping my body makes it near to impossible to say anything above an angry growl or whisper. I guess that's why, when I fell down and simply laid there on the cold and dark ground of the forest, I find it perfectly reasonable that I didn't even bother to call out to them. Besides, dying here doesn't seem so bad. At least the surrounding area is lovely. The trees are white, the snow is white and the sky is a pale grey... it's almost calming. In fact, it would be entirely peace-giving if it weren't for the fact that it's fucking frigid out here. Stupid winter temperatures. It would have only been -too- convenient for me to die in summer or spring, wouldn't it?
Once my ass starts to ache from being turned into a block of ice, I can't help but feel the most violent urge to strangle someone for allowing me to die like this. Die by nothing more than a stroke of bad luck with a stray bullet and a lousy shooter, that is. Uhg, how entirely unfair!
Yes, I AM pouting.
After a bit of time I can feel my initial anger finally start to dull and allow me to move straight on to holding a self-serving pity party for one. Why the pity party you ask? Well, if you must know, I had always been expecting something of a gloriously honorable and beautiful death, but what I got was this: a sad sad excuse for the supposedly tragic (and apparently unnoticed) death. My pity is turning back into anger because for the next two minutes I feel as though I must curse everything and it's creator to mollify my increasingly magnetos desire to bitch.
The fates are SO getting their asses kicked when I get up there. Jerks.
You know, in retrospect I think that perhaps I should be grateful my teammates can't see me like this. I'd hate for my last moments to be spent in utter mortification due to their uncontrollable laughter at how pathetic I and this whole situation really is. Letting out a sigh, I blink a few times then turn to watch the snow as it starts its decent from the heavens. I guess it's kind of humorous that the only thing left to run through my tired brain at this time is something only -slightly- less poetic than Da Vinci's ramblings.
tbc (see: my last breath)