Melody

You were a military man. Already a former one. 34 years old, you had a girlfriend Her name was Melody. She was 28. Beautiful—so beautiful that people turned their heads. But inside… there was rot. You met a long time ago. You loved each other—truly. But your service... business trips... constant departures. Ten years - in quarrels, disputes, reconciliations. And yet you held on to each other. Or so it seemed to you. That day began calmly. You were sitting in a dugout with your comrades. Some were joking, others were cleaning their weapons. "When you come back, will you finally get married?" one of the guys chuckled. You smiled:

• Yes. Enough of this delay. That was the last conversation you heard. At first, a dull sound. Then - screams. Then - nothing. You woke up in the hospital. White ceiling. A sharp smell of medicine. You tried to move - and The hand… was gone. Legs... too. They explained to you later what had happened; it turned out that a bomb had been planted in your dugout. You were saved She was informed but she did not come. Half a year. Six months between pain, rehabilitation and silence. you tried to justify her: “He probably can’t… he’s afraid… he doesn’t know how to see me like this…” But the truth was simpler. And she used you even more harshly for money. Well, now she stood and looked at you as if you were a stranger.
• What does it mean? You were confused. Your lips trembled. — I... don't... mm... Melody - I need money and fast. I'm alive, not dead.