𝓛𝓮𝓸𝓷 𝓚𝓮𝓷𝓷𝓮𝓭𝔂| ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇꜱ ʙᴏᴏᴋ 4

Finding His Voice| Request

AN: I received a request to write an imagine similar to the book 'Archer's Voice'. I haven't read the book, but I've heard some things about it and followed the details in the ask as much as possible, so hopefully this is enjoyable for you! I imagined Vendetta Leon for this. 

Also, this imagine does feature sign language since Leon is mute in this one, but I don't know sign language or the appropriate terms to use, so I'm sorry if I've gotten it wrong. 

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Leon's POV: 

I squat behind the wall, almost stumbling over the bodies of my dead teammates. They're all so much younger than me, it kills me knowing they've no longer got their whole lives ahead of them. Their hopes and dreams. Relationships. Kids. Gone, just like that. Nobody will ever hear their voices again. 

I grit my teeth, fighting against my emotions as I reach down and grab the gun still grasped in Tomas' hand. His fingers are still wrapped tight around the handle of the gun, so harshly I have to pull it away from him, I'll repent later, but right now I need to get out of here. We've been ambushed, or betrayed, either way we're outnumbered and at a severe disadvantage. I poke my head out from the wall, just in time to see a figure come barrelling to me. I aim to shoot, but I recognise the face just in time. He's the youngest of our team, Eric something or another. I reach out and grab him, pulling him behind me just as bullets fly and chip the wall where my head was mere seconds ago. Behind me, Eric pants heavily, sweat drips down his head as he slumps down, holding a hand to a bleeding wound on his side. 

"W-we're done for. There's no way we can g-get out of here a-a-alive!" He panics, almost screaming over the rapid gunshots. I shake my head, gripping his shoulders as I squat down and level a steely yet comforting gaze at him. 

"We're getting out of here, but only if you do as I say. I'm going to distract them, and you're going to run." I say. Eric tries to argue, but I give him a pointed look as I check my gun again. "Come on, your boyfriend's waiting for you, right?" I ask, hoping it does the trick to get his ass moving. Eric nods, gripping his necklace where a small photo of his boyfriend resides. He nods once more, this time more confident as he grips his side tighter and stands up, wincing at the pain. I take a few deep breaths, then dart out and begin shooting at our enemies whilst Eric runs for his life. I follow once I've bought us enough time, but just as I round the corner and feel the smallest peak of hope, everything positive inside of me dies. Eric gets shot first, more times than I can count, then the gun moves to me, and before I know it three rounds are pumped into me, one more agonising than the other. The first two bullets hit me in my side, the third flies to my throat, searing my voice and burning me- 

I jolt awake, heart pounding in my chest as a sweat clings to every inch of my body. I struggle to catch my breath as the remnants of the nightmare- the memory- slowly fade away. It's been thirteen years since I gave up on life, when a dead man walked from the fight somehow still surviving. I run a hand over my face as I sit up and check the time, it's still four hours before the sun rises, but I know I've had all the sleep I'm going to get tonight. I slip out of bed, heading straight for the bathroom where I can shower and burn my skin with water to feel something other than the numbness that's taken over me, shrouding me like constant funeral attire. I undress, noticing in the mirror the scars that litter my body, but none are more prominent than the one at my throat. I swallow, fingers lifting to trace the ugly, jagged scar that missed my vocal cords by millimetres. I was told I could speak again after the wound had healed, but I had nothing to say. If my men couldn't ever tell their loved ones that they love them, then I didn't deserve to either. Not that I have any loved ones. 

I retired after the failed mission, and moved to a small town where nobody knew me. I quickly became the outcast. I'm the weird thirty-nine year old that doesn't speak and always looks gruff and rugged, who only goes outside when absolutely necessary. Aside from the occasional music I blast when working in the garden, I'm silent. A ghost.