When Angels Cry Blood.

The sweat drained from my body, causing me to become completely dehydrated. I longed for some cool water to slide down my esophagus but chances of me getting a break were slim to none. My breathing was slow, noisy and ragged. The rays of sunshine penetrated my thin layer of clothing, making my skin boil in the agonizing heat.

“Frank?” Donald appeared behind me suddenly, his voice cracking slowly. He wiped his own pool of perspiration from his brow.

“Y-yes, sir?” I croaked out, rubbing my dry throat.

“Well, I know you and Gerard were close, and this is really of no interest to me… so, here.” He handed me a stained, torn piece of paper that was folded up a bunch of times. I looked up at him, shocked, and then back down at the letter. It was addressed to me in chicken scratch.

“It’s from your family.” He added. My heart swelled with joy, threatening to burst. I felt a painful lump at the back of my cracked throat.

“T-th-thank you, sir.” I choked out. My family. Wow. I strained to picture them, and the picture was vague. I had no memories with them anymore. I could barely remember my brother’s name. Jason? Jackson? No, John. Wait. No. Maybe it was James?

“Merry Christmas…” He continued on the list of holidays, waving his hand around as he walked away.

My hands trembled as my fingers traced over the letter. I held it close, swallowing the lump that was still present and fighting back some tears.

“My family…” I mumbled, gathering up enough courage to actually open the letter. Only, it wasn’t from my family, it was from Gerard.

My education wasn’t poor; I mean, I went to a decent school, but I was too slow to keep up with the rest. I’ve felt that way all of my life; slower than the rest. I sounded out each word carefully, silently reading it a few times and then finally reading it out loud. It took my 3 times longer to read one letter than it does for the average person to.

I finally let myself cry.

I had bottled up all of my sorrow for so long and this letter had final set me off. I let it all out. I re-read the letter with a positive outlook this time. He was all right, that was what mattered, and he loved me. I didn’t care if it was wrong. He loved me and I loved him back. I didn’t care if I was going to be looked down upon and shunned. I still loved him back.

I didn’t care about anything.

He was going to come back from the War, and we would finally be free and happy. He promised me. He wouldn’t break a promise.

I fell asleep that night with a gigantic smile spread across my face and the letter held tightly.

xxx

Weeks passed with no hope of the War ending soon, despite Lincoln’s desperation to try and end it. Gettysburg and Antietam came and went, two of the bloodiest days/battles of the War. How did I know this? I had (secretly) listened to Donald and his friends discussing of it. If Gerard had survived the two bloodiest days/battles, then he can surely endure the rest of the war, I thought hopefully.

Months passed, my anxiousness grew more and more with each passing day without word from Gerard. Donald and his friends no longer talked about Gerard. Had he given up on his own son just because he did what was right and liked other men? That’s disgusting. Come to think of it, no one talked about Gerard. Once, I went to town to get some supplies at the request of Donald. No one talked about him there. When I mentioned his name to the woman who was working at the General Store, she just gave me an odd look, thinking I was mad, and gave me my change.

It took 7 months for me to find out Gerard was dead. Shot by his side. Well, he was shot by the Union, which was the side he believed it, so he was pretty much shot be his own army. At least that’s the way I view it. Apparently, he went crazy, practically asking to be shot. He died the day after he mailed my letter. 7 months, gone. 7 months, wasted on praying that he was okay and safe. 7 months of worrying myself sick. 7 months of wondering when he would come home. 7 months, and he’s dead. Gone.

Never coming back, never coming home.

I reread the letter that night a final time that night. I grabbed the container of poison that sat perched on the wooden table in the barn. Donald, as I called him only in my mind, used this poison to punish slaves and kill animals. You never wanted to be on his bad side, unless you wanted to die. I downed it in one extensive gulp as I brought the piercing knife against the flesh of my stomach. I felt the color slowly drain from my face as pain ripped through me, seizing my entire body.

I smiled contently.

Now I was finally be free.