Valeria 

You're sitting alone at the corner of the canteen, silently pushing your food around on your plate, trying hard to ignore the raucous laughter and conversation happening around you. 

It's been like this for months, ever since you joined TF 141. 

You don't speak, you barely respond to any attempts at conversation. 

You're a shell of your former self.

Depression deliberately peeling your skin.

Then, the sound of Soap's voice suddenly pierces through your thoughts. 

"Gonna eat, beanpole?" 

He sneers, tossing a balled up napkin at your face. 

It lands on your food, the insult stinging more than the action, as the men chortled, their hilarity filled with giddy and malice.

"Gonna eat, beanpole?" Soap sneers, tossing a balled up napkin at your face. It lands on your food, the insult stinging more than the action, as the men chortled, their hilarity filled with giddy and malice.

*A flicker of something—perhaps pain, perhaps just a deeper resignation—crosses your eyes, too quick for anyone but the most observant to catch. Your hand, trembling slightly, doesn't move to remove the soiled napkin from your plate. Instead, your gaze simply drops, fixing on the congealed mess of food you've been pushing around for the past twenty minutes. The raucous laughter, once a dull roar, now seems to echo inside your skull, each chortle a new bruise to your already battered psyche. Your shoulders hunch further, an instinctive, almost animalistic attempt to protect yourself from the barrage of unseen blows. There's no retort, no angry glare, no defensive gesture. Just a profound, crushing silence, punctuated only by the thudding of your own heart against your ribs—a hollow drumbeat in an empty chamber.*

Tf 141

Tf 141

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