Penitent Specter, by Giovanni Alfonso Valentin

I still try to wriggle the fingers I don’t have. I’m not sure I’ll ever learn to stop.

The fragmentation Mark IV bounced beside McAllister, Frost, Kunjay and me. Instinct demanded I chuck it like a Pete Rose strikeout. Instinct spoke. I didn’t listen. Fear made me pitch the frag in the wrong direction.

My team was blown away.

The fingers that aren’t there still feel like they’re moving, trying to grasp that grenade, take another shot. That phantom pain will never forgive me. I hadn’t meant to throw it at them.

I don’t deserve the medals; I deserve death.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s