Inktober 2025 - 11 - Sting

"It's just a sting."

That's what he had thought whenever getting a vaccine. That's what he had thought every time someone had been gratuitously mean to him. That's what he had thought whenever having his blood taken, either for testing or when donating it. That's what he had thought of every single bee or wasp attack he had stupidly been the victim of. That's what he had thought when he got frostbite because he had put his hand on a frozen handrail, once, without wearing gloves. Paradoxically, that's also what he had thought every single time he had burned himself with a match, a candle, a lighter, a frying pan, or the sparks of a fireplace. That's what he had thought whenever getting his fingers stuck in any kind of door or hinges, as well. That's definitely what he had tried to convince himself of what few times a girl had broken his heart. That's what he had fought himself to believe whenever someone he loved had died.

When the bullet hit his side, as usual, he kept telling himself that it was just a sting. Like he had on the multiple occasions shrapnel had embedded itself in his flesh, or blades had cut into his skin, in the months since that inane war had started.

This one hurt, though. This one hurt a lot. But if he could manage to see it in his mind as just a strange stinging sensation in his flank, he might be able to make it back to base. If he ignored the blood dripping down his hip and down his leg, if he pretended he didn't feel it soaking through his clothing and drenching the hand he used to maintain pressure on the wound, he might just be able to get some help before it was too late for him. What else could he do? Lay down right here and die? After everything he had been through? No, that was not a good reason not to give up. Sometimes you do everything you can, and it's still not enough. Sometimes, the world isn't fair. Fine, most of the time, the world isn't fair. Why didn't he give up, then? Because what he fought for needed as much help as it could get. Because he could not just hand over the innocents to the evil ones just because he was tired. For as long as he could keep on fighting for them, he would.

By some miracle, he made it. He stumbled into the camp, and crumbled down at the feet of the people rushing to his aid. He didn't feel the needle they put into his arm, he didn't feel the burn of the anaesthetic they injected into his veins, he didn't feel the scalpel cutting through him or the tweezers taking out the bullet, and he didn't feel the needle and thread used to sew him back up, either. When he woke up, he did feel it when he laid eyes on his wife and child, though. That was the best of stings. God, it was good to be alive.