The character I thought up during class was a Falklands veteran watching Jackass. Wrote up the scene where he was partially defined (the one I sketched up in class). It needs a lot of work, but here's my first shot at it.
Tired like a battered kite in a dust storm, mote of washed-out blue in a sea of light, my eyes fall to the sky. My sides burn, and I think there's a nest of argentine ants nearby, a stream carrying away gibblets, former parts of me.
I couldn't be arsed to give a damn about this island a year ago, had never heard its name. Couldn't be bothered to care about it yesterday, as we landed on it. I certainly don't give three shakes about it now, dying on it.
Strangely enough, I want to scratch my ass right about now. It's itching like crazy, and my left arm won't move--forget about my right, it's about ten yards too far away to be of any use.
"Save the Queen, see the world" and all that yack in my head, all I want is a beer and some quiet. Dead before twenty, and this doc won't stop talking at me, prodding at me with a frown.
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