Severity And Auditory Obsessions

You sit there and watch the planes leave.

You feel famished as you down the last of your whiskey.

You feel numb. Broken, torn and a sense of regret.

And you've traveled so far....

The stench of a foul body reeks this place, then again, another Z had just tried to maul the chef only moments earlier. The fourteenth in the past six days.

You wondered what good of use you are, now. The E.C.D just signed your discharge papers and you were free to walk. But walk to where? You certainly didn't know, and they hadn't plan on pointing the way.

The room you currently bath your sorrows is bleak and deafening. The lights barely hang in their place. You easily feel empty once you hit the bottle, but that doesn't matter. You can hear your demons calling out to you and telling you drink life away.

They laugh as you crack up another bottle, the barman suggests you had enough. You say otherwise.

Though, it was hard to speak, like a big lump was shoved down your throat over the course of the last few hours. Maybe you drank so much that the alcohol simply hardened inside your throat. This worries you as you take another swig. The man repeats himself, this time he pulls out a wooden baseball bat. Filled to the brim with nails sticking out, you try to muster a reply to make him shut up.

"But I'dd hann drinkin' sov muchh..." the man gives you a cold stare as he slowly crawls his hoof up to the weapon.

You never expected to be that drunk so quickly. Oh well, you remembered that T.E.D is hiring.

You start to get up and try to be nice by putting two bits on the table but instead you missed and they landed inside your drinking glass. You turn to the barman and try to muster a coherent apology but you just wave your arm and begin to walk out. Hoping he understood you're pathetic attempt. He just know's that you will be back tomorrow. Your a miserable sod with no future, and he could use the free money. Even if it meant that he had to look at your sorry ass for six depressing hours, it was still worth the effort.

Finally you get outdoors and notice the thick smoke in the air. Probably those factories again, you thought. Walking down the empty sidewalk you see the usual twenty foot walls and expect nothing of it. They were spread along the parts that T.E.D or the Equestrian military never seized yet. It was a massacre out there sometimes. T.E.D bombarding areas just for fun, killing stragglers or the infected. The military growing more anxious that the T.E.D might gun them down one day, and the military blames the E.C.D for being militias...

Here in the ruins of New York, things might get better if everyone collectively worked together for once, he bickered with himself.

You shouldn't really care anymore. They abandoned you, the war abandoned you and signed you off as useless, worthless and a nobody. But you know why you left, don't you.

You stare at yourself once you reached a public bathroom out on the street. It was a simple bathroom that couldn't have spanned more than fifteen feet. A mirror hung above a sink in the mares stall-room. At this point you couldn't give a shit what was meant for what. A pair of sunken, sad, and pitiful eyes stare back at you. A stallion with too much weight on his shoulders that it would kill a filly, you look at yourself and only see pain. A pain, a cancer that has gone on far too long. You grind you're teeth into submission, babble in you're head about redemption and yet you still go after the bottle when life becomes tough.

And you call yourself a solider...

A weight on your shoulders is right. You are pathetic. You are nothing. A nobody. If glory hasn't driven you this far in life, then self-pity and guilt must have.

You pull out the electric pulverizer, a weapon you hadn't bothered to hand in once they stripped you of your uniform, and you contemplate suicide.

It'd be perfect. A dark secluded place in the middle of nowhere, inside an empty bathroom that no one will ever look. You're colleagues didn't think much of you since you've never really opened up. The amount of amps embedded in this weapon would kill you within seconds. It's a standard practice that was originally used against the ponies with the Black Plague in Europoniea before the whole Z thing erupted.

You take you're arm and place your hoof behind your temple, closing your eyes you wish not to watch yourself die. But rather let your pained scream be the last thing you witness before you leave this burning world.

Just then a stallion busts through the door you thought was locked. You turn around and the man jumps you and brings you down. You fall over and try untangle yourself from his tight grip on both of your wrists, his body pinning your shoulders. You attempt to scream but he shuts you up, he then pulls a serrated knife out of his back pocket. The man was wearing a green stray jacket, fitted with several large pockets top to bottom. The knife had a name carved onto it, the man stuffed his hoof under you're shirt and ringed you up to his face. He responded with two words, "Love, mom." before showing the two words on each side of the knife. He was about to stab you before you turned on you're electric pulverizer that was still gripped tightly in your hoof and dragged it up towards the middle of both your faces. The immediate shock was so intense both of you violently shook while you held the button with all your strength before you're body gave in. The smell of burning char filled your nostrils and suffocated you're lungs before the rate of you're heart pounding through your own ribs accelerated at an alarming speed. The man above you couldn't stop shaking as he sat there numb, screaming, and the hot wet tears streaming from his eyes coated your brown and bruised coat. You could feel him shrink inside and lay there like a bug, slowly dying while the killer simply watched.

You realized as this poor man died above you, that you were not dead. You simply had been given a second chance briefly before you either took your own life, or death had to take it for you.

Either way, you shoved the body off you and coughed violently before noticing that you burned you're entire face. Now no one will notice you...

The adrenaline in you're body was like shooting cocaine again, you hardly noticed the after-effect of pain. You could feel the entire front of your face all hard and hot, but despite the adrenaline already wearing off, you could care less.

You take a picture of a man you once knew, a man you couldn't care for and lost to those blasted zombies during the very early stages of the war. When the infection wasn't even publicly acknowledged. You reply slowly, each breath becoming harder than the last, but you managed to make a coherent response despite you're drunk state and near-death experience.

"Royce, hehe, you ol' kidder. I'm...I'm...I am..." he starts to fade, maybe his body had finally given up, there was only so much abuse you could take before you simply lose the will to fight. And he fought enough in his life already...

He sputtered a final fitting words for his best friend. "You...little bastard...I'm coming mate, I'm coming home now."