Oh, but don't you know,

I fought, I lost, was scared for what?

See, with your eyes, heart,

It was you, the wound, scars and blood,



Hear, I'm calling out,



Don't block me, I'll shout more loud,



Oh, don't you know,

My breath, my heart was taken away,

Without my knowing, stolen from days,

It was you, the thief who left me on bay,



I'm begging, on my knees,



Stop, don't move, don't dare to leave,



Oh, don't you know,

My pride, lust and every last breath,

I give it up, block it out,

It was you I wanted, till life and even after death,



I'm fighting, bleeding free,



Don't go, who else will help me heal?

He was breathing hard, the gun his hands was holding was covered with sweat, his heart racing but the reason was not fear, never fear. His fear was bigger, worse, darker but he knew how to protect it, keep it out of sight. He had kept it out of sight, it was the reason he was fighting. He had to fight. He was protecting his fear.



He leaned against the wooden crate, closed his eyes and took few calming breaths, drowning the noise around, the smell of blood in the air was making it hard but he had managed, he brought the fear back in his thoughts and it was enough, enough to give him the lasting breaths he needed, give him the sense of calmness, peace to ignore the pain in his abdomen and come in sight of the death which awaits him.



He opened his eyes and came out of hide to walk in the fight again. Around him lay his own men and his men, dead, bleeding, injured but he only had eyes for one person; the blond man laughing as he shoot without a heart in his chest.



He knew he had few seconds, to end his own fate or the blond man's. His wasn't a choice, he had a fear to protect. He aimed his gun right at the blond man's head whose eyes met his own a second too late before his laugh stuck in his throat and he dropped on the bloodied floor.



The silence which followed bothered him and yet it was the signal that the fight had ended, he had won. Around him, his men cheered and start dragging the dead man's men under. Yes, they had won but the victory they had was nothing compare to what it meant for him. To them it meant sleeping without the fear of being awake in the middle of night because of an attack, being able to walk freely, women, drinking, freedom. To his, it meant only one thing.



As he walked outside the warehouse, his cell already in hand, the cold night warm against his skin, he called the number he have not called for two years.



"Hello?" A sleepy male voice answered.



"I'm coming home." He said.



"Shit!"








The Start