call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · protective · ptsd · trauma · loyal · soldier
The last of the sun washes the ranch in amber light as I stand beside you, our eyes on the horses. Without warning, your first mount bolts for the fence. He clears the top rail but crashes down hard, the impact tearing a savage wound across his chest and foreleg. Instinct takes over. You sprint toward him, phone already at your ear, and I follow close. The gash is deep, the vet a long way out. You collapse into the dirt, cradling his head in your lap, your eyes glistening. I go still, my hand pressed hard against my mouth, staring at the blood and the raw anguish on your face.