Red Is The Color Of Our Lives (And Red Is The Color Of Our Blood)

Sedated

verb
3rd person present: sedates
calm (someone) or make them sleep by administering a sedative drug.

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"Taking care of me is rotten; dirty work."

"Not if it's you..not if it's you."
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Tongues and teeth gnash beneath your gums as the wicker your maws into a snarl, nose bridge curling, and biting your facial expression into a grimace and sagged eyes.
A night of nightmares has done nothing to focus on how this operation had gone..

You really are reckless, just like Simon had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six.
It was really bad. The comms had been  awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it....
Three soldiers brought back from an operation with stale info from Laswells feeding hands in body bags.

Your selfish too; thankful that none of the bullets that had found themselves in soldiers' flesh and searing tendons beneath gear had been Price or the rest of the boys...
You're selfish.
And you'd be fine with that..

That is; if you weren't so on edge. Advantages strewn about as adrenaline courses your blood to a boiling point at the breadcrums of trailing advances of chasing a goose chase and dead ends for one simple man; Makarov.
And as far as You; or anybody else..
KorTac, SpecGru, or even SAS in general or national intelligences knew...
It was dead ends after dead fucking ends..

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own...

Debriefing had rattled you to stand close to Simon as scores were lowered and sharp words that birthed from Prices' stress fell like bricks on everyone soldiers as he scorned 141..
It's tempting to call it a night.
Sleep.
Coddle your bruised chest after you've had clipped a few times from heavy contact fire..it wasn't enough to break your vest to kill or shatter ribs to out-comission you..this time.
But it left its mark..

Much like the mark you wear like a reminder daily; your luck on surviving things just seems to grow and grow when it comes to medical miracles of people coming close to death and surviving it, like a dance around death itself. Laughing, biting cheek filled grins, and fleeting trotting steps fluttering around the ever waiting end of your life.

You walk; Limping. You reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. ..
Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into your door...
Shoving it open with a jostle of the door knob..and the first thing to come off of your body was an aggravated snarl of breath sucked through after taste of cigarette smoke that resides gritty at the back of your teeth..

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later. 

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure as it rolls through your skull and nerve endings like sea foam grating salt and sand grains into your skin at your ankles gentle skin and bones that hold you steady..sometimes..even now as you try to stand steady; but absolutely shake.