Grandeur Defector

III

I'm tired.
It had been... a week? A few days? He couldn't tell. Time was nonexistent in the jungle, only measured by the sun coming up and disappearing for her lover, the moon. But Eleven had stopped counting; he had stopped trying altogether.

Like usual, he hobbled out of his shelter— today it was sleeping under a large rock slanted slightly towards the treetops— and limped into the unfamiliar wasteland woods. By this point, his leg ached terribly from the lack of medical assistance and general care. Even through the pain, he shoved his bodily needs aside.
Soldiers do not get medical assistance, only superiors do. Those with injuries tend for themselves, and those with grave wounds are shot.
That's just how it is.

He felt sick, weak, and dehydrated— and irritated.
Just yesterday (or was it two days ago?) he fell in cold water, coating his nose and making him sneeze. Now the sneezing turned to dry coughs, and dry coughs to mild fever. The wounds on his arms were infected, white and green pus oozing from the area that received no help. Eleven broke out of his thoughts and stared at a tree he could've sworn he'd already came by before. Were those his claw marks on the trunk? Why should he care if they weren't his?
I want to be put out of my misery.

"Stupid tree."
He snorted, half amused at his delirium and angry at the world, tail thrashing like a snake. He threw his arms up and addressed the world around him in mockery, hoping whatever soldier nearby would shoot him straight in the head for it.
"Hello, jungle I HATE. Hello, world that despises my every move. HELLO-"

A red squirrel appeared from the brush. It bent over with its tiny hands, searching for morsels to sustain itself. Furred and unintelligent, its tiny beaded eyes focused on an invisible target, going still. Its head suddenly turned and cocked to the side, staring at the disheveled man.

"...Squirrel."

Your life is so simple.
You have no burdens besides when you need to eat, only worrying about winter while I stand here looking for a spot to exterminate myself.
He bent over and stared at it with jealousy. His tail thrashed with higher intensity, claws unsheathing from the desire to physically rip into something.

"Oh, to be a squirrel. Do you ever want to kill yourself?"

The squirrel didn't respond.
Instead, it ran away with grace, sensing Eleven to be a natural predator compared to it. Eleven laughed hysterically as it scurried up the tree for cover, tears in his eyes from agony and madness.

"You're funny, creature I loathe," he sneered, pointing at where the squirrel disappeared into the treetops.
"Ah, right. Time to die."

He took one step forward when his leg bone suddenly snapped in two. The bone had continued to endure days of nonstop walking without adequate rest, fracture spreading from pressure.
AUGH-!
He faltered, stumbling as his breath went ragged from agony, vision blurry from all the injuries he'd accumulated— and didn't tend to. His side hit the ground as he fell onto the dirt, convulsing as he yowled in hurt and grabbed at his leg helplessly.

For an average tiger soldier, a broken limb earned a shot in the head. It was easier that way, saving time that the soldier now borrowed; the body would be dragged out of the trench or base towards a river or cliff side to get rid of the incoming smell of death. Having a broken leg was the end of a man's life guaranteed.
Eleven lay on the ground for a long, painful moment.
Get up.

He gritted his teeth, clutched his hands, and extended his claws into the dirt for better grip.
Get up, Eleven.

He heaved his upper half upwards, immediately greeted with more pain as he flopped back down onto the dirt. It took every effort to not break down and sob to himself that it was over, there was no way to live even if he wanted to. He craved the feeling of sleeping peacefully, waking up to be a mindless killing machine as instructed, then go to bed with no time for overthinking.
He wanted to get up.
Get up.