Out of Reach

Fingers stretching, tendons straining, to some goal so close yet still so brutally, desperately out of reach. A snarl, a lunge, but he comes up short once more. Deep breath, deep breath. Picks himself up, another dent bashed into the suit of armor, pitted and scratched. The helmet slips back on, another shell slides into the shotgun. He reaches again.

Empty air. That is all he touches. That is, it seems, all he ever touches. All he ever can touch.

But he comes again and again, always reaching out just one more time. Ignoring the punishments inflicted on his body, pushing through the suffering his mind and spirit endure. A path of blood and pain, littered with the bodies he must leave in his wake. Lost in the howling darkness, he becomes a dog, its fur matted, eyes burning, gaze fixed on a victory he does not know, a desire he cannot see. Eyes on the prize, the stray staggers onwards, down the bloody path. Eyes on the prize…

That remains stubbornly beyond his grasp.