Creative Writing On Sacrifice

Sacrifice

My body aches and sweat drips down my face. His hand is tightly wrapped around mine, leading the way. I can feel my heart trying to jump out of my chest as I force myself to keep moving. We run because of what he’s done. He saved me and will be hunted down because of it. I don’t understand it. I was a stranger, he owed me nothing, and yet he gave everything for me. I am grateful, though; if it weren’t for him I’d already be dead.
I can still remember the horror he saved me from. Back then I was nothing more than a weapon, genetically modified to be a cold-blooded killer for the government to control. The agonizing pain the organization put me through, day after day of cruel experiments and tests. He was different back then, too;

. . simple tasks I was made to do. Many times I would return from a mission battered, bloody, and bruised, so they’d bring me to the doctor and he’d fix me, just like new. After a month of work the doctor grew suspicious of what the organization was really doing to me. But that doesn’t matter anymore.
I will always remember that day, the day he saved me. I had returned from a mission and was lying half dead on the doctor’s floor. “I can already tell you’ve been pretty roughed up. I wonder was this the enemy’s doing or your handlers,” the doctor says as he starts to prep his tools. I say nothing.
“You know I’ve noticed they aren’t the kindest people in the world; in fact, I think they are very cruel. It makes me wonder. You have come in here many times beaten practically to death on days you weren’t even assigned a mission. It’s strange, if you ask me. But then again, what do I know? Please come have a seat and let’s get that bullet out of

“What does it matter to you?” I questioned.
With his tweezers in one hand and a scalpel in the other he began to dig through the hole in my side attempting to find and extract the bullet, completely disregarding what I had asked. I asked again, with silence again as his response. After a few minutes of digging he finally found the bullet, removed it, and stitched my side back up. “There, good as new,” he said as he placed the bullet in a tray and started to clean his tools.
“You still didn’t answer me, doctor. What does it matter to you? Not like you have cared before, not like you took this job completely unaware of what it entailed. You knew what you were getting into, so why do you care now?” I could feel the anger inside of me boiling. What right did he have to act like he actually cared about what I was going through?
Turning off the water and drying his hands, he turned to me and said, “The operation is complete, you are free leave.”
In that instant something snapped in me and I lunged at him, taking him to the floor. Pinning him to the ground I shouted, “How dare you be so cruel as to say such a thing? I will never be free!” I slammed my fist into his face over and over until my handlers came and retrieved me, dragging me