cranberry and kevlar

Cinders ricochet off pale hands, forged in treacherous flames. The heat was unbearable, but his hands faltered for not a second. Twas the fear of the cold, an approach in stillness akin to that of death itself. He was a survivor, one whom life had tested rather redundantly, it seemed.

The outcome was always unary, a young boy emerging as the victor, through sacrifice and toil. The night passed with the brightest of rays shining through the worn-down apartment. A bold heart told him of his days of yore, those of naivety and childlike innocence. Experience was a stark reminder of the futility of thoughts.

He made his way over to the broken-down sink and, with the leftover rations of food packets and a half-empty bottle of cranberry juice he headed over to the kitchen table. He sat over the battered table, eating his morning meal, pondering over the agenda for his day. At the sight of the bloodied red pulp of his morning drink, he was transported to a place he's grown all too familiar with visiting.

He found himself in the Verdana running, away from what he dared not imagine. His superior was shot down, and his comrades were long gone. The remains of his Kevlar hid the bruise on the centre of his chest. Pain was an old friend, and so he soldiered on through the swirling mess of a battlefield.

He was back in the apartment, thankful that he had not gone away for a long time. He headed over to the grocery store to refill the now low supply of food and daily provisions in his residence. Every begrudging step he took across the inlaid marble floor of the market was a subtle reminder of the crucial steps "both literal and metaphorical" he took in his younger days, the smiles of people with their loved ones a dreary reminder of what he had lost.

She was his guiding light. A passionate young woman of about the same age who would stop at nothing to get conscripted into the army. They had met in his early days of academy training, and the moment he set eyes on her, he knew that she would be the one to temper his soul. It was in those days when he was at his happiest. The days leading up to meeting her, the cheerful time spent with her, training, fighting over the last bit of blue cheese, and arguments over the smallest of things.

He cherished it all and found in her family despite being 1000 miles away from its biological counterpart. Of all of her quirks, he remembered one of them most clearly: she had a mild obsession with cranberry juice; something about the tornadoing sight of a red fluid calmed her down. He planned to tie the knot with her after they, as comrades, would return from that faithful mission of the Verdana. Fate, as you would have it, did not go as planned.

He made his way back to the apartment. It was growing dark now, and it was time to burn once again. This was his curse. Hopeful by day, shattered by night. A continued and confounding sense of domineering dread ruled over his life. The unified sense of struggle of millions across the world offered no alleviation,n either for he had endured it all, at the cost of his joy.