Heatstroke

The lone soldier sits at beside his radio, waiting. Night after night, he sits. And waits. During the day he fights, fights enemies he can only just hear and sees only after he kills them. He cant ever tell if they were the right targets, technically; but if they are dead and he is not, they were right as far as he is concerned. He retreats to his safe havens at night, places he know he noises of his struggles to communicate will not cross ears set on finding him.

He grew used to hearing back, but the silence has grown deafening. It has been an eternity in his head since he heard a friendly, calming voice and he grows more agitated every day. Waiting, he is patient, but the fuel of his patience was the voices and he needed that patience to continue the fight. The fight. It will go on only as long as he does because he knows it will outlast him and he participates as long as he breathes. Theres no respite except the voices over the radio at night. During the day is heat, jungle, bullets.

Heat is all around. Everything bakes, boils or fries. It all goes eventually. Some days it is worse than others but never bearable. It is another fight all together. The night brings cool enough to rest but without the voices, it might as well be an oven in those safe places for all the respite he gets.

He cant wait any longer. Half the pain comes from knowing that the voices on the other end might have given up their fighting and crossed over. There will be no hearing from them ever again, no resonance or closure. Crossing over is the total goodbye.

Sitting by his radio, he sweats more than he does during the day. Straining to the static, he cant tell if the river coming from his tightly clenched jaw is sweat from his head, or tears, or blood. It matters not. Just a whisper

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