“Still got those magic pills?” Li Wei asked, his voice trembling slightly as he pressed down on his bleeding wound.
“You mean the painkillers? Yeah, three left.” Zhang pulled out a small bottle from his combat vest, rattling it with dark amusement. “Though I’m starting to think they’re more like placebos these days.”
The bunker walls shook as another shell exploded nearby. Dark humor was their only defense against the absurdity of their situation - two military medics trapped in a concrete box, running low on supplies and hope.
“Remember when we thought joining the medical corps meant saving lives?” Li Wei chuckled weakly. “Now look at us - rationing painkillers like they’re candy.”
Zhang examined his friend’s wound in the dim light. “Speaking of candy, these pills taste worse than those protein bars they gave us in basic training.”
“Nothing tastes worse than those.” Li Wei winced. “Though I’d kill for one right now.”
“Careful what you wish for,” Zhang replied, carefully counting out one pill. “With our luck, they’ll air-drop a crate of those instead of actual supplies.”
The dark jest hung in the air as Zhang helped Li Wei swallow the painkiller. Two left now. Their eyes met, both knowing but neither saying that Li Wei’s wound was beyond their limited supplies to treat.
“You know what’s funny?” Li Wei spoke after a while, his voice growing fainter. “I joined to make my mother proud. She always wanted a doctor in the family.”
“Well, technically you are treating patients,” Zhang forced a smile. “Just… with slightly more explosions than she probably imagined.”
Li Wei laughed, then coughed. “Tell her… tell her I did become a doctor. Sort of.”
“Tell her yourself when we get out,” Zhang replied automatically, though they both knew better.
Hours passed. One more pill gone. Zhang watched his friend’s breathing grow shallow, wondering if the painkillers were doing anything at all or if they were just shared delusions of comfort.
When the rescue team finally broke through three days later, they found Zhang sitting beside Li Wei’s body, holding the last painkiller like a precious relic.
“Any survivors?” the rescue leader asked.
Zhang looked up, a bitter smile crossing his face. “Just me. And one painkiller.” He rolled the pill between his fingers. “Though I’m not sure which of us is in more pain right now.”
He pocketed the last pill - not for physical pain, but as a reminder of the absurd tragedy of war, where even medicines designed to ease suffering become symbols of loss.
Years later, Zhang would sometimes take out that final pill, now worn smooth by time, and remember his friend’s last laugh. In those moments, he’d wonder if perhaps the real painkillers weren’t the pills at all, but the dark humor they shared in their final hours together - their small rebellion against the senselessness of it all.