Let him die – he deserves it.
But he's also risking his life, is he not?
Natural instinct of creatures and humans, dear. Life, death, life, death, life...death?
Time's running out, Pikachu. Think quickly. Wisely. Carefully upon the consequences. Save him or not?
Now or never.
He's dead. I know he is. It's the nagging conscience behind my back: your fault, your fault, your fault...feasting on your guilt.
The sun lies directly overhead. Hot golden rays wash over both of us: one weak creature and one dead human. I try to lift my head up, but an immense pressure holds me down. Everything is throbbing with unmistakable pain, the self denial and the departure of sanity. The faint bitter taste of blood wavers in the air slowly, relishing my discomfort. My eyelids feel heavy from the lack of strength. Visions grow blurry.
And yet, I lie down here contemplating. He's dead! the voice screams. And so he is.
There's that uncomfortable silence chewing away the remnants of my life. The birds had not been merciful, I realize, staring intently at the dry blood spotting the young boy's chest. They still continue to seep, bright bubbles of red welling up now and then. I am beginning to feel nauseous, have I not eaten anything for the past hours.
Weariness invades my body. I know I am going to die, for it is an inevitable fact lest by some miraculous chance someone manages to help me. I highly doubt that. No one will miss a scraggly creature tossed up on a path, adjacent of a twitching boy.
Life, life, life!
I swallow what little liquid is left in my parched mouth, the dry taste pervading every corner. That thought does not dwell upon one's mind right now, for I have just witnessed an extraordinary (or perhaps just a logical explanatory) feat.
A low moan utters from his lips, obviously curling up in pain due to the series of critical attacks imprinted on his body. I cringe in guilt.
He grits his teeth in determination, fists clenched in the tremendous amount of pain exerted on his figure. Trembling, I watch steadily as he coughs sprays of blood thirstily absorbed by the dry ground. Tattered frays of denim jeans barely cling onto his shaking knees. He scraps his knuckles against the hard surface once, dull eyes unblinking as he struggles to stand up. I watch incredulously at him stand up, despite the fact he had just been pummeled by territorial birds.
Alas, when one keeps their hopes up, it usually winds up falling deeper, for he collapses again with a heavy thud. His chest heaves with such tiredness, the last flicker of life darting across his eyes shining amber against the sunlight. He stops breathing.
No! I want to cry out. Something went deliberately wrong. Someone made the wrong move. I know this isn't supposed to happen, as it defies all logic of life.
No, no, no.
Ash Ketchum, the trainer I have barely met, dead? I utter a low groan of resentment, paws writhing with the uncontrollable emotional pain.
At the far distance, I make out the silhouette carved in gold. The bird soars cleanly through the sky, eyes sparkling with what seems like tears, but its movement is awkward and rigid, as if it too knows this is not what fate destined. My own vision is blurry so that I hardly see, but to the still body in front of me, and a vague pink cat hovering in front of me.
I'd go willingly in hell, I plead, but demand: why, why, why?
The strange creature simply responds, this wasn't supposed to happen. He was too important to die.
My breaths are strangled, stiff sobs. My fault then. Death is approaching; I feel myself relapsing in a lost strand of time. I know now. I was supposed to save him from them. But I didn't.
One last chance, I plead a bargain with life and death. One. All I need is one. I'll save him. I promise.
The cat shakes her head.
I want to help you.
I don't feel like doing this.
But I must.
Her brilliant blue eyes stare sadly.