There was sand in my mouth, in my hair, and in my clothes. My side was aching tremendously, and my ears were burning. I could feel the hot sun on my bare back, burning tiny scars across it, and I could hear my heart beating fast. I was walking, but barely, and my legs groaned and moaned as I pushed on. I could still hear the roaring sounds of war behind me, but I didn't stop to listen, nor did I even slow. I kept on walking, kept on driving myself forward, and did not allow for any back steps.
I coughed hoarsely, trying to force the sand from my throat, but none came forth. So I tried to ignore it and focus on other things, like the blood running down my chest, but there was no feeling there. I could see the blood, but not feel it. I couldn't feel it trickling down my skin, nor could I sense where it was coming from, so I decided it didn't matter. I was going to die, one way or another, and the blood would only make the death much quicker, which was preferable.
Voices called my name, but I couldn't be sure if they were truly there, or if they were just my past coming back to haunt me. The words that followed my name were incomprehensible, and weak, faint, dead sounds of the desert around me. I began to forget ever hearing them, and my consciousness began to fade . . .
. . . How long have I been walking?
I was still in the desert, and my legs were still moving, even if the gears in my head had ceased. I didn't seem to be getting anywhere at all, and the desert appeared to go on for miles, never ending . . .
. . . the world was going dark . . . my life . . beginning to fade . . . I could hardly even hear my heart, and for a moment, I thought it had stopped completely . . . but then, slowly, but surely, it did stop beating, and what I thought to be my last breath of life echoed out across the desert sands, never to be heard by anyone, and my body never to be found . . .
. . . . . . and my "god" never to forsake me again . . .