Call it love.

The lone survivor of the ambush and subsequent tortures suffered survivor’s guilt and post traumatic stress disorder for his remaining days. Mostly in bed waiting to hear from an ally.

Solace never came. No trust or hope now. Just ruin. Ruin and decay. And one lone broken poet spreading the story, but leaving off the ending—he will have none think ill of his ally.

This is not an endorsement of Metallica.

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Franklyn Monk

Poet. Geek. Science fiction aficionado. General freak.
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