Summersong
-one-
I could smell the scent of thick suffocating smoke. The scent of something burning. My military instincts awaken and I jump out of my cot, against the doctor’s orders. My head swims for a moment and I grimace as my vision returns. Then I rip back the fold of fabric that had served for a door and began limping towards the smoke. It’s night. Warm for early March. Nevertheless, a group of soldiers huddled around the bonfire have quilts wrapped tightly around their shoulders. The fire is blazing before them, coughing ashes into the night sky.
“God Almighty, what is that stench?” Joseph, a young man just four years my senior, cringes. My hands clench into angry fists as I see the kindling, a thin sheet of photography, a blue lace dress.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout, shoving two of the men who were crouched near the fire away. Frantically, I grab the singed photographs, the flames licking my numb fingertips. My comrades yell and grab my arms, trying to hold me back. But I’m stronger than them, and reach further into the scorching fire until my fingers close around the image. I jerk my arm back, screaming at the pain. My hand is a crimson red, already blistering in some areas. The photograph falls to the ground, and I stamp the flame out in the snowy ground. My knees buckle, and I’m on the ground, panting, sobbing.
“Noah?” a familiar voice asks, a firm hand gripping my shoulder sympathetically. I push it away, breathing angrily.
“Look,” I choke out, “look what you’ve done.”
“Noah, it was for the best, Noah,” Tom, the familiar voice, says. He crouches down beside me, trying to catch my eyes. But I refuse. Hot tears run down my dusty battle-worn cheeks.
“How could you, Tom?” I stutter, glancing at the fifty-nine year old man. Now it is his turn to avoid my eyes.
“It was for the fight,” he says, his voice cracked and heavy. When I don’t respond, he continues. “You were getting sick, Noah. You weren’t recovering. We – we knew why,” he whispers to me. “Did you love her, son? That much?” A tremble rolls through me.
“Look what you’ve done.”
“God Almighty, what is that stench?” Joseph, a young man just four years my senior, cringes. My hands clench into angry fists as I see the kindling, a thin sheet of photography, a blue lace dress.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout, shoving two of the men who were crouched near the fire away. Frantically, I grab the singed photographs, the flames licking my numb fingertips. My comrades yell and grab my arms, trying to hold me back. But I’m stronger than them, and reach further into the scorching fire until my fingers close around the image. I jerk my arm back, screaming at the pain. My hand is a crimson red, already blistering in some areas. The photograph falls to the ground, and I stamp the flame out in the snowy ground. My knees buckle, and I’m on the ground, panting, sobbing.
“Noah?” a familiar voice asks, a firm hand gripping my shoulder sympathetically. I push it away, breathing angrily.
“Look,” I choke out, “look what you’ve done.”
“Noah, it was for the best, Noah,” Tom, the familiar voice, says. He crouches down beside me, trying to catch my eyes. But I refuse. Hot tears run down my dusty battle-worn cheeks.
“How could you, Tom?” I stutter, glancing at the fifty-nine year old man. Now it is his turn to avoid my eyes.
“It was for the fight,” he says, his voice cracked and heavy. When I don’t respond, he continues. “You were getting sick, Noah. You weren’t recovering. We – we knew why,” he whispers to me. “Did you love her, son? That much?” A tremble rolls through me.
“Look what you’ve done.”
♠ ♠ ♠
Ooh. I forgot to mention - in this chapter Noah is twenty years old. It jumps back and forth between chapters, so just be aware.Hope everyone enjoyed! I love getting comments, so please tell me anything - what you like, dislike, suggestions, praise - whatever it may be, it's appreciated.