Last Regret

His only awareness was the ringing in his ears.

It seemed it had always been so; born into a world of nothingness, save the ringing.

Eventually, his eyes flickered open, revealing a muddy landscape capped by a cloudy sky. No, not clouds but rather smoke. He knew it was smoke from jumbled memories of burning phosphorus and napalm.

This was all familiar to him but he couldn’t quite pull it all together.

Then the ringing faded to be replaced by the growing sounds of gunfire, explosions, and the occasional scream.

“Music to my ears,” he thought still uncertain about where, and even who he was. The sounds of battle wrapped themselves around him like a warm blanket.

Then he was there, a man in a helmet with a gun slung across his back. The face was familiar but recognition was out of reach.
The helmet turned and spoke to another, “Jenkins is done for. Dope him up and let’s get the hell out of here.” Then they were gone.

I’m Jenkins, he thought.

He knew that he’d been injured in battle but felt no fear. This, despite “Jenkins is done for"; a proclamation he didn't question.

He looked down at his hands that were resting on his stomach. Blood was flowing freely from between his fingers.

Done for.

He didn’t fight it. Instead, he let his mind go where it may. Oddly, he didn’t think about his glorious days on the battlefields. He had a long history of adventures, grand even by mercenary standards. No. He thought of her. All other memories were pushed aside by her voice saying, “Please don’t go.”

He should have stayed.

He’d done many regrettable things in his life, but in the end, his only regret was the one thing he hadn’t done.

“I should have stayed,” he said.