[he must be hallucinating, he thinks, because otherwise he wouldn't hear that voice calling his name. not as he's trying to get back up from where he's collapsed, the lack of real air such a strain on his lungs. he can't hide the petals anymore - hasn't been able to for a while, yet it's been kept quiet. but out here, he spits out the yellow petals, tries and tries to clear his chest and it's not enough, leaving him half suffocated and gasping for breath.
that voice must just be his memory, a trick of the heart that aches in his chest. a last happy thought before he'll choke. no one should see him in this condition. no one will, if he has his way - if he can make himself stand, but he can only get halfway to sitting before he has to cough again, the petals falling into his hands, on his lap, the ground as his body shakes from the effort.
he'll move. he'll find the strength to keep moving, after this ends. he has to, so that no one has to watch their comrade die. so that the weight of something impossible will only make him suffer, and no one else. that voice, that recollection, makes his heart so pained - this must be what dying is.]
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that voice must just be his memory, a trick of the heart that aches in his chest. a last happy thought before he'll choke. no one should see him in this condition. no one will, if he has his way - if he can make himself stand, but he can only get halfway to sitting before he has to cough again, the petals falling into his hands, on his lap, the ground as his body shakes from the effort.
he'll move. he'll find the strength to keep moving, after this ends. he has to, so that no one has to watch their comrade die. so that the weight of something impossible will only make him suffer, and no one else. that voice, that recollection, makes his heart so pained - this must be what dying is.]