OBSESSED(Poohpavel)

Chapter 22 : Broken Warrior

In a large, dimly lit room, Tin lay beside Naret, their bodies close but worlds apart in the darkness. Tin's body was drenched in sweat, every breath labored, the pain from his injuries a constant, gnawing presence. Sleep eluded him as he struggled with the weight of his memories and the searing agony coursing through his veins.

Slowly, Tin eased himself off the bed, careful not to wake Naret. But as soon as his feet touched the cold floor, a sharp, piercing ring echoed in his ears, followed by a warm, wet sensation trickling down his neck. Panic surged through him, and he rushed to the bathroom, his steps unsteady, his heart racing.

In the harsh light of the bathroom, Tin caught his reflection in the mirror. Blood stained the side of his face, seeping from his ear, a cruel reminder of his fragility. He scrubbed at the blood, the water turning pink as it swirled down the drain. Staring at his reflection, Tin barely recognized the man looking back-a man beaten, broken, and haunted by the horrors of war.

A memory clawed its way to the surface, pulling him back to that fateful conversation.

Tin's Father: "Doctor, how is he? How's my son?"

Doctor: "Your son is incredibly fortunate, considering what he's been through. He just came out of a long recovery, and now this... You know how badly his body was damaged the day that bomb exploded near him. He's lucky to be alive, and that's only thanks to his protective gear. But the blast left him with broken ribs, brain damage, and severe internal injuries that kept him in a coma for a month. If Tin continues to ignore my warnings, he could lose his life. He has serious issues with his hearing, and I recommend treatment from a specialist in the United States. But he's closed off, unwilling to admit what he's feeling, even though I know he's suffering in silence."

Tin had overheard this conversation, hiding just out of sight, his heart pounding as he absorbed the truth.

End of flashback.

Tin sank into the bathtub, peeling off his blood-soaked shirt. His body, once a testament to strength and resilience, was now a canvas of scars, each one telling a story of pain and survival. His muscles, once proud and defined, were marred by wounds, old and new, that crisscrossed his skin like grotesque tattoos.

As he hunched forward, the throbbing in his head intensified, and he began to slap himself, desperate to drown out the memories, the images that haunted him day and night. The PTSD gripped him, a relentless tormentor born from the battlefields of Dongo. He could never forget the day he was captured, the day he saved Benjamin's lifeless body, only to fall into the hands of the terrorists who saw him as a threat, a weapon to be broken.

That first day in captivity was a blur of chaos and confusion. Tin had lost all sense of reality, unsure if he was awake or trapped in a nightmare. The scenes replayed in his mind-piles of bodies, the tortured screams of his comrades, the helplessness as he watched them suffer. No matter how hard Tin tried to save them, he was powerless, and his failure was a wound that would never heal.

Every day was a battle for survival. Tin endured beatings, starvation, and brutal punishments. The scars on his back, the burns on his skin, and the shattered bones were all reminders of the price he paid for resisting, for refusing to give the terrorists what they wanted. They feared him, knew his skills with explosives and his intelligence were a threat, so they kept him chained like an animal, stripping away his humanity bit by bit.

His fingers, once so deft and precise, had been crushed, the nails ripped away in a twisted attempt to break his spirit. His ribs, still fragile from the explosion, were shattered once more, and his leg was left crippled, the bone splintered and poorly healed. Yet through it all, Tin clung to his mission, to the promise he had made to protect his team, even if it meant sacrificing his life.

Now, as he sat in the cold, empty bathtub, Tin's mind was a battlefield of its own. The war had taken everything from him-his body, his peace, his future. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memories, but they surged back with a vengeance, overwhelming him with guilt, pain, and sorrow.

He thought of Naret, sleeping peacefully in the other room, unaware of the demons that tormented him. Tin had once believed in a future for them, a life beyond the war, but now, all he could see were the ghosts of the past, the shattered pieces of a man who could never be whole again.

Naret stirred awake, feeling something wet beneath him. His hand brushed against the damp sheets, and when he turned on the bedside lamp, the sight of blood made his heart race. Panic set in as he quickly sat up, searching for Tin. The bathroom light was on, its glow spilling faintly into the bedroom. Fear and worry twisted in his chest as he quietly approached, the blood on the sheets only heightening his dread.

As Naret reached the bathroom door, he stopped in his tracks. There, under the harsh white light, was Tin, sitting hunched in the bathtub, his broad back exposed and riddled with scars. Fresh wounds were mixed with the old, and blood trickled slowly down his skin, painting a harrowing picture of pain and suffering.

Naret's breath caught in his throat as he silently watched the man he loved, who was supposed to be his strength, his protector, now reduced to a fragile, broken figure. Tin's muscles, once the source of Naret's admiration, were now marred by jagged scars that told a story of unimaginable torment. There was a new wound, still bleeding, its dark red hue a stark contrast against Tin's pale, sweat-soaked skin.

Tears welled up in Naret's eyes, blurring his vision as he stood frozen in the doorway. He wanted to rush to Tin, to hold him, to bandage his wounds, but he knew better. Tin had been hiding this from him, had gone to great lengths to conceal his suffering, and now, faced with the truth, Naret felt powerless. The man he loved was slipping away, piece by piece, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Silently, Naret let his tears fall, each drop carrying the weight of his helplessness. He turned away, unable to bear the sight of Tin in such a state. He returned to the bedroom, his steps slow and heavy, the image of Tin's wounded body etched into his mind. The bed, still stained with blood, was a stark reminder of the reality they were living in-a reality far from the peaceful life they had once dreamed of.

Naret removed the soiled sheets, his hands trembling as he replaced them with fresh, black ones, the color matching the darkness that had settled in his heart. Every movement was mechanical, his mind numb with despair. He wanted to scream, to cry out for the man who had been his everything, but instead, he swallowed his pain, burying it deep inside where it festered like an open wound.

When he finished, Naret sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed on the bathroom door. He waited, knowing Tin would eventually return, but also knowing that the man who would come back to him was not the same one he had fallen in love with. Tin had been shattered by the horrors of war, and no amount of love could piece him back together.

As the minutes ticked by, Naret's tears continued to fall, silent and unrelenting, a testament to the agony that had settled in his soul. He wished he could take away Tin's pain, wished he could bear the burden for him, but all he could do was wait in the darkness, hoping that, somehow, they would find a way to survive this together.

But deep down, Naret knew that the scars on Tin's body were only the beginning. The real wounds were buried deep within, in places Naret could never reach, no matter how hard he tried. And that knowledge, more than anything, broke his heart.

🎶 Tin Pov

I don't know if I'm dreaming or awake,
Caught in a world that I can't forsake.
I'm too tired to think, it tears me apart,
A broken warrior with a shattered heart.