Water crashed around him as he gulped for air. Finally finding a covered spot, he pulled himself onshore between a large array of ramshackle bushes, out of sight. They had lost each other in the current of the river. It was a bad idea, and he knew it. He lay down on his elbows, coughing. The mud cooled his stomach and legs.
He didn't make it, he thought. He saved my life but didn't make it.
A pang of guilt slammed him in the chest and he collapsed from the force, crumbling on himself into the thick, cool mud. His eyes sagged. When he opened them again to stare through the leaves, the pain escaped from his eyes, and he wiped the tear with a muddied hand. The guilt turned to anger and he rolled over onto his knees.
We could've gotten away, he raged. We could've gotten away if we'd just hidden. Or ran.
He slammed his fist into the mud, but it was no use. The pain degraded him until his head rested in the bank, his fist still above him aching to rid of the rage.
What a waste of time.
No, he decided. If I had just done more, put more effort, we would've been fine.
He dropped his fist again. And again. Mud splashed all over the leaves around him. Once more, and his eyes leaked again. He pressed his head into the ground as hard as he could, but the force still couldn't distract him from the pain that was crashing into him like the waves that tore them apart.
He just wanted to help.
He coughed as the sobs caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes. His fist drew into his chest and he fell to his side, curling into himself.
His tears joined the river.
YOU ARE READING
The Making of a Heartbroken Boy | ✔️
Historical FictionHe was forced into the war after a terrible heartbreak, turned cold by the laws of the nation he fought for. But when foes become allies and he gets badly hurt in the process, he finds someone - who just might cure the first heartbreak. Maybe, it w...
