15 hours

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

We all must wait for things in life. Sometimes it's waiting in line for food. Sometimes it's waiting for your midterm grades. Sometimes it's waiting for your paycheck. Sometimes it's waiting for
him or her to text you back. Perhaps once in a while though, that wait is a matter of life or death...

This is the latter.

Submitted: September 16, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 16, 2017




He pulls back the curtain, just enough to look outside. Still nothing unusual, nothing breaking from the consistent pattern of rain, thunder, passing cars in the distance, and darkness.


His cell phone sits on the table. It’s been there in the exact same spot for the duration of the day. 15 hours have gone by, and still— nothing. In his right hand, he tightly clutches a locked and loaded Glock handgun.


His comrades are all dead now. He hasn’t been doing this for very long, but he wonders if he should’ve seen it coming. He’s not sure what’s been more unnerving—powerlessly watching the tragedy unfold, or waiting for the resolution.


He contacted them as soon as it happened. They told him to lie low, give them the location, and then they’d update him.


15 hours have gone by, and nothing. He might as well be exploring the tunnels of a coal mine, waiting for the canary to die.


Did they forget about him? Abandon him?




He reasons with himself. He’s been a reliable, loyal, good soldier, and he’s never known them to willingly leave a man behind.


Voices are audible in the hallway. He twirls around to face the door, dropping the curtain. He holds his breath a moment, listening more closely. They seem to be coming closer to the door. He carefully walks over, not to make noise with his footsteps or shifting weight. The voices are getting louder and clearer, their native dialect.


“Come on lets check this one.”


He hears the distinct sound of guns being cocked. He walks backwards towards the table, his gun trained on the door. He takes the phone with his left hand and puts in his pocket. He continues over to the side of the room, aiming at the door from a near 90 degree angle. There’s a series of knocks.


Still, his phone sits quietly against his thigh. He takes silent heavy breathes.


He says it so quietly, only the Lord himself would be able to hear it.


“I’m sorry…I’m sorry I couldn't bring them all home...”




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