Word Count : 97
Title: March of the Living
The sweet smells of sweat and vomit hit me in the back of the throat. Antiseptic stung my nasal passages. And above all, the metallic tang of blood. We could never quite scrub that away.
The nurses cleaned his wounds, clucking their tongues. The driver had not even stopped this time.
If we had stayed there, one of us would never have come out.
But I would not be the one to still his heart. Not with a weapon or a word. I could just as easily cut off my own hand. So we were walking again.
The above is my entry for the Friday Flash Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The idea is to write 100 words maximum about a photo prompt.