I do not want her to cry.

Just one tear falling from her face would hurt me.

Hurt me more than a thousand knives.

If I do not return, she will cry.

Yet, the chance of going home is looking bleaker by the second.

My blood runs down my face, my arms, soaking my clothes.

It spills onto the dirt, staining it a dark crimson.

I am numb.

It doesn't hurt as much anymore. The wounds of course.

My vision is not as bright as it was.

Darkness threatens to swallow me.

I was left to die, but in return she will die because I left.

I must get up. Walk home. Live.

If only for her sake, I must endure the pain.

I struggle and stand.

I will do it all for her.