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The Akulov

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Акулов

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Currently Akulov Family(Being Played and Alive)

Romanskiy Akulov(романский Акулов)

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[spoiler=Romanskiy Akulov]

Romanskiy “Roman” Akulov(Jekyll)

романский Акулов

Personality Traits

  • Impulsive
  • Vulgar
  • Religious
  • Perceptive
  • Obnoxious
  • Childish
  • Patriotic

Backstory

Raised on the outskirts of Zelenogorsk, Roman was the son of a farmer. A real patriot of Chernarus, who only studied until the final year of high school before he dropped out and enlisted into the CDF. There is served as a combat medic under Sergeant Vasili Akulov, his cousin in law. Before going to war, he married his highschool sweetheart Chernova and got her pregnant right before he deployed. Upon returning to his home after the war has ended, he found out that Chernova and his unborn child was burnt to death by a house fire caused by the Chedaki invasion. After which he devoted himself to God, the bottle and the army in that order.

  • Extremely xenophobic
  • Blames Russians for the death of his family
  • Poses an extremely dark sense of humor

Vasili Akulov(Васи́лий Акулов)

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[spoiler=Vasili AKulov]

Vasili “Sergeant” Akulov (Mohawk)

Васи́лий Акулов

Personality traits

  • Observant
  • Dutiful
  • Vulgar
  • Obnoxious
  • Sneaky
  • Cowardly
  • Sarcastic

Backstory

Was raised in Volgograd (Russia) but moved to chernarus at the age of 6. Moved into an apartment in zelenogorsk. Joined the military. Was involved in the civil war on the side of the CDF. After the war he kept working for the military up until the point when chernogorsk fell. he then became a deserter. Age of 35~~

  • Hates the United Nations
  • Does not care for politics
  • Lost his sister and daughter. his mind is slowly getting destroyed by guilt

Nikolai Akulov(николай Акулов)

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[spoiler=Nikolai Akulov]

Nikolai “Niko” Akulov (ZeroTP Alt)

николай Акулов

Personality Traits

  • Calm
  • Impulsive
  • Resourceful
  • Realistic
  • Loyal
  • Cynical
  • Perceptive

Backstory

Raised on the outskirts of Zelenogorsk with his brother Roman, Nikolai grew up as a local farm boy who decided to pursue a life in the city. Unlike his brother, he finished Highschool and went on to college in Chernogorsk. He eventually return home to Zelenogorsk and begin working in an office, on the weekends he would leave the city to go home and go hunting with his father while Roman was away in the Army.

  • Sharpshooter,
  • intelligent
  • extremely resourceful
  • Serious
  • Feels the need to explain himself

-TBA-

Prologue

We all stood before the stone which marked the names of all who fell during the war. All lined up neatly in a row, two men and one lady stood at the front of the graves, each holding a rifle and all in uniform. Dressed in greens, they stood at attention, an SKS in each of their hands, laid comfortably against their shoulder vertically like royal guards in front of the queen’s palace. On the far right, a man stood holding his rifle, the sergeant stripes plastered professionally to his uniform, his brown eyes staring at the flying Chenrarussian flag with both pride and sadness. His sharp facial features brought out his years of experience on the battlefield, a body lean but toned, one look at him and you can tell he was a soldier. Next to him stood a lady, her blonde hair tied neatly into a bun underneath a pilotka hat, her baby blue eyes sparkled as the light shines into her eyes, like gems on the ocean. She was clean and neat just like a soldier should be, her posture was excellent as well as her body, well toned and fit. You could never tell that she had a kid.

Next to her stood the saddest one of them all, a man who stood there at attention just like any other soldier would, but radiates an aura of grief. His eyes greyed, a blank expression as he stared at the flying flag. The medic symbol of a Red Cross and caduceus right above his corporal stripes. His freshly shaven face took little away from his eyes. On his right ring finger holds a gold ring with a small diamond in the center, his engagement ring.

Behind them stood an assortment of people, all civilians from the looks of it. A man in a sharp black suit stood next to elderly gentlemen. The man stood tall, focusing his eyes on the medic, his posture was as excellent as a soldier but he was dressed in a sharp black suit with leather dress shoes, probably the most well-dressed person in the crowd. His facial hair was shaven till the point it was a stubble, his hair cut the same way, you can see the outline of his head with a thin layer of hair around 1 cm thick, he possessed the features of a hawk, an animal prepared to strike and hunt at any given second. Next to him stood a man, elderly, around the age of 50 but he looked a lot older, the stress of losing his daughter and wife, while his son went to war was too much for him. Like the medic, he radiated an aura of sadness, his expression blank, emotionless, his rough hands kept on twiddling with a diamond ring, at least, a century old. He was dressed in black, not in a suit instead a black coat with a grey scarf hanging around his neck. A little girl stood not too far from the elder, roughly 12-13 years old she looked at the lady and the sergeant closely, eyeing them as if she was afraid they would run. Her hair was blonde like the lady, she was dressed in a black gown that looked both elegant and respectful. Her hair tied into a ponytail, and her posture like everyone else was excellent, holding the hand of another lady. Now this one was an odd one, she spoke with an American accent but has the features of a Chernarussian. Her hair once dyed blue was cascading down like a black waterfall with faint hints of blue highlights. Her skin pale and white like she’s either been hiding in the darkness or she applied makeup to more than just her face. She looked genuinely sad, though, all of us did. But perhaps, the medic and the elder man showed more grief than most.

A man in a black Christian robe walked up to the graves, he turned around to the crowd of people, a large golden cross hung from his neck. The holy bible in his hand, he nodded to the soldiers as a sign of respect and turned his attention to the people, a minister. He straightened his collar and cleared his throat as quietly as he could before he flipped open the bible to start the service.

“Dear God,

You are our Creator. You are the author of life.

Life is a precious gift.

We come today to commemorate and honor a life that is precious to us.

As we mourn this life that is no longer with us, we are aching from a void that has been created in our heart.

We lift up our sadness and grief to you.

Lord, we ask that you would comfort us in our pain, and bring us an abundance of your gentle healing mercies.

In the name of the father,

Of the son,

And of the Holy Spirit,

Amen”

Everyone in the crowd crossed themselves, all except for the soldiers who stood in place at attention. They raised their hands in unison and saluted the flag. Their rifles at the ready, their eyes fixated on the flag, tears begin to fill their eyes, here it goes they thought. This is where they find closure, a send off to the dead to the Father above. The only thought they could think of was a prayer the medic once used,

"Now you go up and meet Saint Peter and report for duty, for you my son have served your time in hell"

Underneath the flag lies the graves marked with two names, two pictures, two stones that bear the same family name

“Chernova Magerata Raskim Akulov,

Wife

Daughter

Mother in heaven”

“Alexis Helden Akulov

Wife

Daughter

Mother

Grandmother in heaven”

God...Family...Country

and

The ultimate sacrifice

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That was then, this is Now... 

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Chapter 1: If that was Then, Then this is Now

This is the story of Romanskiy Akulov, a man of God, Family and Country.

[mp3]http://puu.sh/nTeQC/4e2ed423b2.mp3[/mp3]

A cigarette in my mouth and a Kalashnikov magazine in my hand, that's pretty much how every goddamn morning begin. No warm cup of coffee, no beautiful naked girl to lay next to, no proper ventilation in that accursed box, no chirps from early morning birds, only groans from the remains of tourist and locals.

I looked at the glass of that of a shattered mirror. The apartment building on the 7th floor overlooking the once great city of Chernogorsk. I moved my makeshift blanket, nothing more than a bunch of thick clothing mainly wool torn up and stitched together. A pillow made of a burlap sack, wool cloth and rags for stuffing lay at the top of the mattress. My kalashnikov at my side, next to a canteen filled with water and a plastic water bottle filled with piss, I hate getting up in the middle of the night to take a piss, not that it'll matter. Usually it's just me sticking my dick out the window and taking a piss. I chuckled at the thought that some poor motherfucker might get hit with piss every morning by accident, I poured the bottle out the window, out of sight out of mind I use to say.

I slept relatively close to the window, for obvious reasons, it was my toilet, my cigarette tray and my only source of ventilation. One of those things are not like the others isn't it?

I was never too bothered about the cold, even though winter have just past, my room is kept at a good 10-15 degrees Celsius. At least that's what the thermometer said, but who knows it may be broken, can a Mercury thermometer even break? Ah fuck it, who gives a shit about this science bullshit. Needless to say, I got quite the natural resistant to cold, on really cold days I might dawn on a wool jacket or even winter clothing if it was snowing but for the most part when it's above 10 degrees a T shirt would do me fine, comfortable and relaxing not to mention cooling when it comes down to long days of traveling.

My combat boots sat at the side of my bed, what were they called again? Hi Tec Magnums or some shit, found it off the some dumbass American who decided the best course of action is to crash into a field. The boots are at least comfortable, if not a little beaten up but it was still in decent shape for a western boot. I found a couple other things there as well, some western rifle that looks like a long stick, called a The Fail or something like that, no wonder they crashed, they were carrying a living bad omen.

A small combat knife stabbed tip first into a wooden cutting board, where the night before some poor squrriel decided it will be fun to try and sneak some food from a plastic bag I had, filled with nuts and berries I got from the wild. I promptly shut the bag on his head and squeezed until eventually he stopped squirming and thrashing about, the plastic bag promptly suffocated that little mongrel, squeezing all the air out of its tiny little lungs until the pressure build up so much he died. I always wondered if I squeezed hard enough if his eyes will pop out like that squirrel thing in Ice Age. That will teach you to steal from me you stupid animal, at the very least he was delicious. Skinning and cutting him up reminded me of the old days, going out hunting with Nikolai and Father, under the forest near our family farm. It particularly reminded me of bringing the animals home, father loved his meat fresh just like the produce we used. Occasionally, we will go check on the rabbit snares, if the rabbit is trapped in there, we'll throw them inside a kennel, the kind farmers use to keep their dogs. Bring them home and kill them, fathers method was always foolproof, a knife to the head never a bullet. There's this little thing that small animals do, like lobsters or crabs when you pierce their skull with a blade, even if they're asleep or in a comatose state, they contract like one of those cheap bendable magnets. It's kind of cute actually. Father taught us this method of using the stab you initially do, to cut straight through the rabbit or animal, dissecting and splitting them in half. Put the fingers under their skin and just pull off their hide and skin just by using a bit of force, after removing all the nasty parts, liver, heart, intestines which father is convinced if we fry those tiny pieces up in egg and breadcrumbs it will taste amazing, I begged to differ.

I promptly lifted myself from my bed, an almost burnt out cigarette in my mouth which at this point I just sucking the filter. I sleep usually in wool black sweater and my boxer shorts together with my black knit cap, which I also gotten off the American, I thought it looked cool. I walked over to a pair of comfortable flip flops, early morning Chernarus air makes the floor incredibly cold, especially since it wasn't properly carpeted, fucking lazy city folks right?. I walked pass a simple wooden table with an empty plate on top, a bloodied steak knife and a hunting knife where the fork and knife is supposed to be. I can't seem to find a fork in the early days worth my salt, and gotten used to either eating with my hands or using a hunting knife as a substitute. Eventually I did find one but it just feels weird to use now, there's more stable feel and surface area to eat from on a knife. It just made more senses.

I continued down the small apartment, it wasn't large, it only contained about 3 rooms, the bedroom, the living room and the bathroom. A bathroom where I kept my clothing, hanging on the shower curtain it dried slowly with the cool air blowing in from a tiny vent leading to the outside. I also kept about 2 gasoline cans there, washed out as best I in order to store fresh water, when it was raining I would bring them to the roof where there is this little makeshift funnel, created out of a broken car hood, 4 cooking tripods and a hole with a metal pipe in the centre. A small stockpile of food laid in my kitchen, canned peaches, rice, bacon, beans, flour and the occasionally meat pieces like liver, eyes, heart and even guts from the animals I've hunted usually preserved in a cooler or a salt solution my father taught us how to make when we were young. An axe laid lazily next to the door where there was an assortment of shoes, from athletic Nike shoes to my Hi Tec Magnums. A small makeshift fireplace sat next to a wall, right under an opened window, a cooking pot and frying pan placed on a wire gauze that hovers above the fire about a feet supported by two metal pipes. It wasn't the most sanitary place to live in but it was a home, well it was my home.

Pouring some water out from the canisters into a basin, and splashed the cool water into my face, letting the cold water shock me back to life. Before I put one a pair of TTSKO pants and a black t shirt, I stared at the mirror, the old CDF dog tag hanged from my neck next to my cross, I promptly clutched the death from my neck next to my cross, I promptly clutched the death instrument of Christ and chanted:

"I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well"

I never prayed or asked for anything from the lord, I merely worship as part of my everyday routine. I knew the price of asking the lord for something, there will always be a consequence, the good lord I know is nothing if not fair. By giving you something he takes from someone else, in turn, something must be taken from you. The last time I prayed, I asked for my brothers of my unit to return safely from deployment, miraculously we survived over six firefights with soldiers of the chedaki, with minimal casualties none of the soldiers were even sent to a hospital. The most that happened was one of the privates got shot in the arm, he survived and as far as I know, is still fighting for his own damn life. But the lord is nothing if not fair, for he saved all my comrades from certain death, he sentenced my family, my mother, my wife and my unborn child to perish in flames. Since then, I have never prayed or asked, I merely worship in hopes that my family will have safe passage to heaven. Even if that means I must keep living in this hell, a fair trade if you ask me.

I sling a hunting backpack over my shoulder as I walked towards the door, where I grabbed my AK carbine or more commonly known as an AK74U rifle. A magazine inside, I pulled back the slide back and let a bullet enter the chamber, as I hook the shoulder sling onto the two rings on the front and back of the gun before swinging it over my shoulder. Grabbing the axe, I opened the door, axe at the ready to fight any zombies on the way down. For the most part, it was clear, occasionally there would be one or two annoying zombies who decide they want to walk up the stairs. In the military we were taught to always clear up never down, I called it the CUND(pronounced Cunt) technique, Clear.Up.Never.Down. Except the good thing about the dead is they are fucking stupid, have you ever seen a headless chicken? In the farm we could kill the chicken by chopping off his head, the funny part about it is that the headless chicken would walk around, stumbling and tripping over everything for like a few seconds before it slams on the floor ready to be turned into dinner. Father use to train me and Nikolai on how to be accurate with a rifle by sending about 2 chickens out, we would each have a karabiner bolt action rifle with us, I believe it was the K31, the Switzerland version of the karabiner bolt action(Karabiner 98k) made famous in world war 2 by the Nazis. Great Grandfather would always tell us stories about how the Russians, would fight the Nazis for years, how he took part in a suicide charge against the Nazis with nothing more than a knife and a stripper clip. He would sit me and Nikolai down and talk about the horrors of the war, the German concentration camp where they gassed all the Jews, about the battle of Stalingrad that he took part in and more importantly about the hero he served under, the legendary sniper Vasily Zaitsev. Someone who our cousin in law and ,my sergeant is named after.

Anyway, during the 'chicken season' after would let loose the two chickens in the barnyard, this little fenced off area we sometime use to herd cattle. We are given each one stripper clip, and about 5 bullets in excess. The trick is to shoot the chicken in the head before they start panicking over the gunfire, father would always say, a good Hunter shoots between heartbeats, a good shot would suppress his heartbeat by controlling his breath.

Nikolai was always the better shot even if he is younger, he would look through the sights of the karabiner, and see the head of the chicken, both eyes wide open to give him the best field of view, he learnt how to control his breathing quite quickly, a natural shooter. 'bang!' You will hear, the sound of a bullet leaving the barrel of the gun as Nikolai breathes out, his rifle still at his shoulder as if there was no recoil at all. He didn't chamber another round in, he didn't have to, he always hit what he wanted to hit. Father would never say anything, he will nod in approval at the most, until it was my turn. It always take me around 2-3 shots before I hit the chicken, more time than not, I hit him in the chest, causing it to fall over instead of taking his head straight off. Father will never say anything even then, he'll simply tell us to go pick up the dead chicken, and bring it back to him. We would de-feather them, and remove all the yucky bits like heart, intestines and guts which for some reason father keep insisting we fry and use them as a pre-dinner snack. Of course mother never went for it, thank god.

As children we were taught to share, but to also keep what we earned, loyalty to our family and filial piety is very large value in my household. Since me and Nikolai shot the chickens, we each got our own little plate where we sliced half of our spoils for father and mother, my half will always be lesser than Nikolai because I hit the chest. So father will get the larger half of Nikolai's chicken and mother will always get half of my small chicken. Then we would enjoy a nice dinner together, complete with fresh peas, potato and bell peppers, all produce from our farm. Chicken season is always my favorite part of the year, next to Christmas.

I walked down the seven floors, that's 7 flight of stairs, by the time I was down I was panting for breath. I walked towards the nearby forest, an axe in my right hand and a can of cola in the other. I always leave cola on the 4th floor, by the stairwell where there is an elevated platform with a ventilation shaft, I always placed my cola and can drinks there including beer. During the night, the cold air will blow out of the vents and cool down my drink so by morning I would be able to enjoy a nice cold drink on my way to loot or gather resources for the next night. The streets were as quiet as it's going to get, I lived in the country so I quite used to manual labor that was the way I was raised. You reap what you sow, what my father always say.

The sound of boots hitting the concrete and paved road made quite a bit of sound as I walked towards a tree, small but sturdy, the perfect kindling to start a slow and steady ember. I flipped open my zippo lighter, the Chernarus flag engraved on the side with the CDF logo mirroring it on the other side, I lit a Marlboro mint cigarette.

Grabbing the axe by the handle with both hands, I proceeded to swing.

If that was now, this was Then 

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The Good Lord never gives us anything we can't handle

"Roman, the good lord never gives us anything we can't handle" Father's words,

 ringed in my ear when I returned home from war. For some reason, the information that my family farm, wife, child and mother was killed in a fury of Molotov thrown by the Chedaki never caught up until I returned home.

 I remember being dismissed at the military compound at Pavolo, walking home on the road to Zelenogorsk, dressed in green. Medals hanging from my chest, the corporal stripes at the side, a cigarette in my mouth. As I watched the trucks of men drive by the road, each filled with decorated soldiers on their way home, each cheering that they survived the war, it was call for celebration. Soldiers of all kinds of units were lighting cigars, popping champagne while at the back of the truck, letting the champagne foam flow all over the road and even hitting the next truck's windshield behind them. A jeep full of men from my unit drove past me and stopped, Sergeant Vasili, popped his head out of the driver seat and glanced at me.

V:"Going home Roman?"

R:"That's right sarge, you?"

V:"Can't be bothered to return home to the ball and chains without getting properly wasted first, you want to come?"

R:"Nah thanks sarge, but I got a wife and family to go back to"

Upon hearing that Vasili promptly smacked the cigarette out of my face with a tight slap and took a cut cigar out, waving it at my face it's a cocky smile.

I took the cigar from his hand as he offered me a light from the same lighter I have, I leaned towards to driver seat to light my cigar.

Vasili shouted at the top of his lungs,

V: "Rejoice in our Lord always, and again I say"

A: "REJOICE"

Everyone in the truck shouted at the top of their lungs including me. Our unit's own motto, to rejoice in our Lord. With that he drove off, a cigar in his mouth and a truck full of clearing soldiers on their way to the nearest watering hole or brothel whichever one is nearer. I instead continued to walk until I see Father and brother standing at the dirt road leading to our farm about a couple miles out.

I smiled and hugged each of them and shouted,

R: "What you couldn't wait for me to come home?"

[align=left]They both said nothing, they both look down, as if in grieving. I quickly sensed it and my smile begin to fade.

R: "Is something wrong father?"

[align=left]He just looked down, gloomy, depressed. I turned to Nikolai,

R: "Brother what's going on is it Chernova? Is my baby boy alright?"

I didn't know if I had a boy, he was due 2 months ago but I was gone on a mission with no communications to back home. I hoped I had a boy but, more importantly, I hoped he came out alright and not retarded or something.

I was getting impatient.

R: "Is it mother?!"

I practically screamed at them, the same way I would do to chedaki POWs.  

They both looked at me, surprised, maybe angry, I never spoke like that to a family. But right now all I want to know is my family, are they alright. Then they told me the news, how about 3 months ago there was an attack on the farm, terrorist or Chedaki they described it. The whole farm was set ablaze, father and brother were out in the barn at the time, they barely made it out themselves. But when the fire died out, they rushed into the main house, only to find the bodies of Chernova and Mother frozen in place, burnt to a crisp like the victims of Pompeii. Everything was destroyed, our home, our lives, our farm, but most importantly and devastating, my son or daughter was aborted in flames, my wife taken away in her prime and my mother, a humble and meek lady who deserved a death by the gentle touch of Archangel Michael received the unholy baptism of Lucifer.

Now

I watched as the tree came crashing down, creating a dust cloud as it came in contact with the dirt, it was not a big tree by far but it was good enough to sustain me for a few days. Standing at the side of the trunk, I swung downwards with as much might as I can muster, breaking it up into smaller more compact pieces. Each contact simply made more splinters fly into the air like pollen during a windy spring day.

Then

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War... War never changes...

S: "I'm hit!"

The sound of a soldier on the floor echoed through the valley, bullets and shrapnel were landing all around me and the boys. I looked at Vasili and shouted,

R: "You hear that?!"

V: "Sounds like the second platoon!"

[align=left] He shouted back, ducking behind cover while gun fire landed all around us. The screams of the soldier kept coming,

S;"I'm hit! I'm hit! I'm hit!"

[align=left]His screams continued to pierce through the air like a hot knife through butter, somehow piercing through the loud gunfire and my ear protection.

I peeked my head out for a second before a bullet started hitting the wall in front of us.

V: "Fuck fuck fuck"

[align=left] Vasili grabbed my jacket and yanked me down, checking my face for blood, once he sees I was fine, he slapped my helmet indicating that I was alright

R:"He is over by the ridge!"

I yelled, the gunfire begin to die down but the screams were all the louder. Machine gun, PKPs and RPKs fired overhead suppressing the Chedaki fighters, trying to prevent them from firing back.

I reached for my knife as I slung my rifle on my back, Vasili stared at me for a second and nodded. He shouted at the top of his voice in Chernarussian,

V: "Covering fire!"

 One hell of a scream that pierces through even the loudest gun  fire, like a thunder roaring on the flat earth.

Next thing I knew, all kinds of small arms begin blasting in the general direction, smoke grenades RDG2 begin lighting up to provide additional cover. I readied myself for the pause in the fire once the smoke thickened up to much. Vasili looked at me and mouthed 'five'.

I looked at the direction I have to run and begin counting. 5....4....3.....2....1...

The second the timer hit one, I crouched ran forward, faster and faster, bullets continue to fly overhead for a few more seconds until I broke into a sprint, the bullets stopped. I ran next to the downed soldier and grabbed him by the shoulder and place my left hand until my armpit pulling him into cover.

I counted every second I had, I suspected I have around 20-30 seconds before I would receive fire again so I moved towards a different position not the one with Vasili, by the 25 second mark, I was behind a wall with the wounded soldier and a private who is taking cover behind a small wall. He looked at me and then at the wounded soldier, he seems to went into either a shock or a rage, cause he shouted something that was inaudible and switched his AK to full auto and begin spraying. I grabbed my knife from my boots and looked at him,

R: "Where's your kit?!"

 I yelled as brass was raining down next to me.

S: "Right! Ugh!' Right!"

He yelled back, I used my knife and cut open his right pocket, out came an assortment of medical supplies. Bandages, gauze, morphine and even an epi-pen. This motherfucker was a medic.  I motioned to the private to start applying pressure while I reached into my own bag and pulled out some plasma. Very primitive but it works, I begin pouring the salt onto his wound to sterilize it. Gut shot, I knew he was most likely not going to make it, you never want to be shot in the gut, next to the head it was the most fatal shot you can take. It was certainly the most agonizing. Getting stabbed in the gut, unless you are extremely unlucky chances are you are going to make it. But a bullet is a different story, it may look like a small entry wound but as it pierce into your body it expands and breaks up. It starts with your gut, the intestine, the stomach, spleen and then out, if you're unlucky it may sever the aorta the main artery of the body. If it starts bleeding you're going to die in a few minutes no matter how good the medic, surgeon or doctor. I begin adding bandages, antiseptic, even morphine before I looked at his face. Blood was bubbling in his mouth, like a cauldron. I knew at that moment that the bullet pierced the stomach. He wasn't going to make it but I wasn't about to give up. My hands all bloody, I kept applying pressure on his wound but I was a medic not a surgeon. The brass pierced and fucked up several of his internal organs, he was bleeding from more place than just one. I pushed an IV kit into his arm and looked him in his eyes,

R:"You're going to make it, you're gonna go home. You're not dying here!"

The lie that every soldier dread saying. I kept up at it, until I felt his hand grabbed the morphine kit on my shoulder. I knew what he wanted, he wanted to stop feeling pain. He knew he wasn't going to make it, I turned at the private who was watching in shock. I grabbed the morphine and uncapped it, injecting it into his arm, he began to relax. I watched as he went into an almost comatose state, staring into the sky as blood continued to bubble in his mouth. I knew what he was thinking of, his family, his wife and maybe his kid. I don't know the man, but in the last few minutes, I have shared a bond with him that I will never forget. His eyes turned milky white eventually, the blood in his mouth became stagnant. And his head moved to the side as if he was about to go to sleep. I closed his eyes with two fingers and said,

R: "My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, 

would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? 

Now you go up and meet Saint Peter and report for duty

, for you my son have served your time in hell"

If this was then, Then This is Now....

To be continued

This is my first time writing a story using a new technique, I used the flashback technique that brings back memories from different parts of his life so that it eventually patch up into one big picture. Tell me whatcha think!-Love Jekyll

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Breadman    11

you may want to change the text on the first image a little confusing, in my experiance a more light brown or dirty image as the backer would be much better. otherwise +1 well done

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