[ WP ] The air left my lungs

The air left my lungs in one great heave as I felt his boot crush down on my chest. My hands scrabbled at his ankles, desperately grabbing at the thick leather. 
 
 Through the darkness I saw his maniacal intent. His eyes burned, his dirty face lit up by the flares surrounding our camp. As quickly as he had stamped down on me, he dropped to his knees and pinned me to the floor, his hands tight around my throat. I was desperate. 
 
 As white knuckles throttle my throat, a profound focus on the detail overwhelmed me. The sweat dripping down my killer's nose, the stitching of his khaki uniform, his dark cropped hair. Everything, so surreal. I am no longer in the jungle, but I am painfully aware of my impending non-existence. 
 
'No. I will not go. Not like this.' 
 
 The fire raged from somewhere deep below. The desire – no, the need for breath took over. I grasped his right arm and raised my hips to try and shift my opponent's weight. I felt a slight wobble as I thrust upwards with all my might. 
 
 Suddenly, the focus was on my opponent. The murderous intent became a panicked flurry of arms and legs from my khaki clothed assailant. I seized the initiative. 
 
 Using my weight, I forced him to the ground. He curled into a ball, trying to protect his face and head. I stood above him, looming in the darkness. My malevolence about to be unleashed upon this man. I slipped my hand under his head, searching for softer tissue. I felt his eyes, screwed up in fear. I gouged. I ripped. I did what had to be done. 
 
 The battle raged on around me. The screams of men, the staccato fire of rifles. Below me lay the motionless, defaced body of my enemy. The air left my lungs in a slow exhale of relief. 

