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just a short story I just wrote, seeing if you guys liked it:
It was cold, Sean was getting numb. His toes were purple, he was sure; his eyes were half close in an attempt to keep the wind off of them. His fingers curled at wierd angles inside the pockets of his ski jacket. Frostbite would take them of feeling within the hour. Although the rest of his body was lethargic and wasted, his mind raced. He thought of food. It was a good thought, and it kept his mind off of the paint for a few minutes.
He thought of his parents. They must be have given up by now. It had been two mornings since he last heard the chopping of the helicopter, and even longer since he had seen had glanced the ski patrol on the far ridge. Although he had cried out, and attempted to move, he was too weak, and too broken to move. Even now, he couldn't crawl, roll or kneel. His leg tortured him, and it was swollen to fill his ski pants. He had waited for three days. Three days without food, fresh water, or heat. For three days he had been on this mountian, and for three days he had been in constant pain.
His mind empty of thought, the pain struggled to take it's place. It succeded, and Sean was wracked with a series of spasms that made him gurgle, and cough up a mixture of blood and saliva. The dehydration was getting worse. He couldn't eat snow, he knew, it would lower his body tempurature too much.
Sean removed his hands from their hiding places. They shook, and were more frail than he had ever seen them. Slowly, he twisted to his side, and felt the pocket under his left arm. Slowly, with the coordination of a drunk, he unzipped the pocket, and sunk his had in. He withdrew his old Swiss army knife.
He had gotten the knife when he was ten, from his grandfather. It had been a birthday present. Sean remembered the wrapping. It was a metalic green, and it had a nice green bow on the top. Green had been his favorite color at the time, and it was also the color of the knife.
He had made up his mind. He said a quick prayer, to whoever might be listening. Sean raised the knife to his left wrist. Slowly, he put the blade over all of the blue lines that were so vivid under the thin, pale skin. A sharp pain replaced the dull one of his leg, and a stream of crimson leaked from his skin.
Sean kept going, pushing as hard as he could. He felt his left thumb go limp first, and then all of his fingers as the tendons were cut one by one. Now the blood was covering his hand, and spilling onto the snow beneath him. He put the knife down, red gore staining it's green surface. It was warm. It was the best thing he had felt in a while.
At a regular interval, the wound pulsed. A fresh draught of blood came forth, and flowed down his arm. Then, slowly, the interval lengthened, and Sean's vision becam cloudy and grey. He stuck a finger into the wound. He could feel his bone, his blood vessels. Each new sprit of blood created a unique feeling. Finally, finally, Sean though, I can get off this mountain.
The last thing Sean saw, before allowing himself to enter the bakery in his mind, full of tempting breads and pastries, warm with the heat of the oven, was a red jacket, with the words ski patrol written across the front. The man looked over to Sean's wrist, and gave Sean the kindest look he had ever seen. Then the man stood up, and kneeled. He bowed his head, and started to pray. Then Sean entered the bakery.
TSg.t Zakarius Clay
142nd Cadian, Stationed Planet Skyfall B
4th Brigade, 1st Battalion, 1st Co.
'The Pathfinders', Drop Team - 6
Pssst.... give me kudos....
It was written well, but I would change a few things.
First of all, soemone who has felt the inside of their arm / hand would jerk their hand out f the wound instantly. It really, really hurts. So I would leave that he felt the inside of his arm out. Secondly, people think of gore as innards, so I would replace:withHe put the knife down, red gore staining it's green surface.
"He put the kife down, its blade stained a deep crimson" or something similar.