The Lost Ones

The Lost Ones - Chpt 19

*Y/N POV*

I looked up at my reflection in the mirror. In it I saw an old man with greying hair, multiple bags under the eyes and eyes red from the tears. But as I looked deeper into the eyes, I saw pain, suffering and hopelessness. Even from his stance you could tell he was carrying a great burden, is in great agony.

Sounds about right.

*Ring**Ring*

I felt my pocket vibrate and reached out to answer the phone call.

"Captain Wolffe, speaking"

"It's Six, where were you? I have been trying to reach you for 10 minutes now."

Fuck. 10 minutes? What am I doing.

"Apologies ma'am I kind of dozed off." I replied unfazed.

"Anyways, I wanted to say I granted your requests."

"Thank you, ma'am." I replied hoping silently that was all to it.

"I'm not done. You are to bunk with them and test them before their mission. Is that clear?"

I remained silent. I am fine with this arrangement, but which army bunks "enlisted" men and commissioned officers together? My eyes widened in realisation. Is she –

"I'll take that as a yes. Clear your office immediately, Lieutenant." She hung up.

I just stood there, staring into the mirror, mouth agape, the phone in my hand dropping to the floor. I began shaking in rage, my fists clenching tightly, my sanity seemingly gone from my body. I yelled in rage, letting out a firm punch at the mirror, feeling the broken glass piercing my skin, savouring the pain. I saw nothing but red. I could kill someone.

I paced around the room trying to calm myself, to no avail. Why is this happening to me? WHY? WHY GODDAMNIT?

"WHY!" I yelled my lungs out.

My anger soon turned to despair and sadness. I trudged my way over to the wall, banging my hands and head on it. Like an insane person. Is this the life set out for me? Is this what I have become? I let the tears flow. I could not hold it in anymore. All these emotions bottled up, ... well the "bottle" broke. I turn around and slumped on the wall, finding myself settled on the floor, legs spread, arms by my side. I just sat there, cursing my luck, fate, Eliza, Six. Basically, everyone I could place the blame on. But then I realised, the problem is not them. It was me. I am the problem.

As I sat up straight, my right hand brushed against a cool, metallic object on my belt. My Makarov PM pistol. I took it out of the holster and admired the design. It was my father's he gave me the day before he died. I kept it ever since. To remind myself of his deeds, his bravery, his courage, my weakness. The weakness that I could not have helped him. That I stood there as I watch the life leave him. I did not even try to fight them. I just stood there and cried. Like it did anything. Crying over spilt milk.

Shamed my father.

I shamed my family's name.

I shamed myself.

I thought to myself how a single bullet can scare, maim and even kill a person. I set there, silently, listening to the sound of the shower running, the soft drills and orders. The metallic click of a hammer being pulled.

I sat there, staring at the Makarov once more. What a sight to behold. The wooden grip, the simple design, the weight of it resting on my hand. Even such a small weapon can kill someone. I chuckled to myself. The gun looked so tempting. I was so lost in my admiration, I could have sworn I heard it calling out to me. Calling me to pull the stiff trigger. Calling me, promising to be the relief to all my problems.

Just a light tug. Can't be so hard would it?

I want to end this. To leave all of this behind. I just wanted to be free from all this misery.

And so, I lifted the gun to my chest, gripping it firmly. I readied it, cocking the slider back fully, seeing the 9mm bullet load properly to the barrel. Such simplistic design. Reliable too. One round was all I needed. One round will it be. I brought the end up to my chin, feeling the cooling metal in all its glory.

This is it, I guess.

I guess it is so.

I looked up to the ceiling. And my eyes now closed. After all of this. After all I've lived for. The searching, the fighting, the heartache. This was it. I felt a single droplet trail down my cheeks. This is how it all ends.

This IS for the better. Take out the root of the problem. Me.

One less mouth to feed. One less stuck-up officer to deal with. Giving the Eliza the freedom to love who she loves.

Am I happy?

No.

But what can I do? My life is crumbling before me. My first love broke my heart. My job, in tatters. My family, who I failed time and again to bring together.

But what can I do now?

"Nothing..." A final dry chuckle rang through the room.

Any last words?

"I'm sorry Eliza, for all I have done. I'm sorry I was not there for you when you awake. I'm sorry I was not enough for you. I'm sorry for pushing you away. I'm sorry... . I'm sorry that I love you. You deserve so much better than me. Ich liebe dich."

Take care of yourself.

And a click was the last thing I heard...

Credit for the outline and flow: Sgt. Pickles 3 (Fanfiction.net)