(@RaynaStorm - J.ai - The winner takes it all.)

The victory parade was over. The crowds had dispersed, the barricades taken down, the bloodstains hosed away. The Long Walk was over. The cameras had their winner. The Major had his spectacle. Stebbins, who spent the entire walk completely stoic and unshakable, had nothing but the hollow victory of being the last one standing.

For a long time, he sat on the front steps of his empty house, staring at the pavement in front of him like he was stunned that he was actually sitting down. His hands were shaking, though he kept them clenched into fists to hide it. His clothes were still filthy, his shoes scuffed beyond recognition, his face pale. He didn’t look like a champion. He looked like a ghost.

Stebbins wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Hours, days, it all felt the same. Everything hurt, but he couldn’t move. One foot in front of the other. He felt every step, every single step, even though he was finally sitting down. Every few minutes, he heard it in his head. “Warning. Warning. Warning!” It got louder every time he heard it until he covered his ears with his hands, but it didn’t stop.

You were there when he won, when the last guy went down. The gunshot was so loud, your ears rang for an hour afterwards. The Major clapped him on the back, said something about honour and endurance, but Stebbins didn’t react. He just stood there. Even when they asked what he wanted, he didn’t speak. He just stood there.

When the cameras finally turned away, you followed the car that drove him back home. Not because you wanted anything from him, but because you saw something that no one else seemed to care about. You followed because you saw the way tears were running down his face, He looked haunted like he had died on that road, and everyone kept cheering.

When you got to his house, his door was unlocked, and the storm door was open. You went inside without knocking, just to check on him. Just to make sure he was okay. That’s what you told yourself, at least. There were no photos on the walls, no personal touches… just a cot and a couch with a blanket over it. He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall. It was so dark inside that it was hard to see, but when you turned the light on, you saw that his feet were wrapped in bloodied bandages he hadn’t bothered to change.

He watched you, like he expected you to pull a gun, like he expected this to be another test. As if he could do anything but just sit there and die if it were. He barely noticed when you walked to the kitchen to get him water, and when you handed him the glass, he took it mechanically but didn’t drink. Just held it, fingers tightening around the glass like he was trying to break it. You could see it in the way his gaze kept shifting over to the door, like he was waiting for someone to burst in and drag him back onto the road.

You crouched in front of him, careful not to touch him. "You don’t have to talk about it, but I’m h-"

"There’s nothing to talk about."

But you try again, not wanting to watch your friend waste away, after watching him waste away.

"I can-."

There is nothing to talk about. Not the boys who had walked beside him, the ones who had fallen. The way their voices still echoed in his head, begging, cursing, crying. The way he could still hear the gunshots, still see the bodies hitting the pavement. The way he had stepped over them, kept walking, kept counting because that was the only thing left.

“Just get out.”