#galone

I should’ve known something was off when for my morning wank I couldn’t get it up again.

The stress, I tell myself, it’s always the fucking stress. My mother says I should see a doctor for my head because the nightmares of screaming children and blond, red stained braids fly all over behind my closed eyelids and Rory won’t speak to me. I can manage my nightmares all by myself, all fine because I know what is at stake still. This fragile country I get to help rebuild and make a future where no blond braids will ever be stained red — and maybe. Then maybe… she will understand. She won’t forgive me but she might understand. And maybe this wanking issue will get resolved too.

So is it the stress? What stress? There’s no games, no food scarcity and all the district are slowly falling in line with President Paylor’s new government and anyway this unloaded gun situation started three months ago. In the middle of the winter when wanking is all the warmth my M16 auto rifle will accept. And yet here we are. Over one year from the anniversary of the war ending.

It’s truly become a sad occurrence. Barely a dribble, barely a sigh of relief, barely a warm body small and protected on my side.

But I should’ve known something bad was going to happen because as my lips move feverishly over this woman’s I don’t really know I can only but feel a twitch. A tingle. A barely there scratch on my AR-15.

Yet the need is there. The need to prove something to myself. That I am beyond this… melted gun barrel problem. That I am beyond the past and moving on. Always moving on and forward.

I shed her clothes before I shed mine and I am in her entrance before I can remember her name. Monica? Sandra? Rita? Something.

I push in her, semi-soft and mostly filled with disappointment than lust.

“Is it in yet?” She huffs up in the air and her red hair is too distracting so I look down at her stomach. Soft and plump and well-fed.

I push deeper in her, my trusty AK-47 filling in as many crevices as I possibly can. Hip to hip we are like the stupidest, most vulnerable hunting duo. My movements are erratic, frantic, disappointing.

“You can do better than that Hawthorne” I tell myself and grip on the bedding next to her head. Her sounds are high pitched and her yeses feel like lies of “let’s run away together”. They are too much like a wounded animal but when you I pause to take a breathe, I realize maybe the animal is me.

“Gale?” she asks and I hate the concern in her voice.

I say nothing. I pull out and the traitor look at me limp and punishing.

“Fuck…” I whisper under my breath. She tried to touch my shoulder to comfort me but I shrug her away. Oh let’s pity the soldier who can’t fuck to save his life. Who can’t fuck to save her life.

“I’m going,” she says at some point and I let her. I always let them leave.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask the mirror as if I’m expecting an answer. He is still there. Shrunk back to its regular size, sheathed back into the bullet ready to be unsheathed when ready for real.