Strength
Strength
Fara stumbled as a limp body was shoved into her arms.
“Take this one back to base,” a gruff voice whispered into her ear. And then she was left alone in the approaching darkness.
The sounds of gunshots and cries of pain were almost too much to bear in the receding daylight, washing over Fara in a wave of agony and grief. With each bang and each cry, it was as if someone was shooting at her as well. Hundreds of thousandths of people were dying out there, and not one person was able to stop it, or, more likely, didn’t want to stop it.
The body in her arms groaned, and Fara was forced to take action. She didn’t want to. She would have been content with just crawling into a hole and dying of thirst. Or be shot and killed instantly. Whichever came first, but she knew she couldn’t. She had a duty to her country and she would stand by that duty.
The boy, for she realised it was a boy now, coughed. A spray of blood escaped his dry lips to coat the front of her white nurse’s dress. Definitely not a good sign.
Placing the boy onto the ground, Fara checked him over. He couldn’t have been much older than her sixteen years of age, his face still showing signs of boyishness. But inside, she knew that just like herself, he was much older. No one could escape war and not have changed. The boy had a gunshot wound on his upper thigh. Blood was seeping out of the wound and pooling around his leg. Just by looking at it Fara could tell that he had already lost a lot of blood. Taking a deep breath, Fara ripped the pant leg off. The gunshot was even more gruesome than she had originally thought, the skin of his thigh a bloody mess. Swallowing her revolt, Fara pressed her hand into the wound, in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, and dug her other hand into her bag. After a few moments of rummaging, she pulled out a roll of gauze and a small jar filled with antiseptic cream. The boy moaned again, clutching his injured leg. Fara gently pushed his fingers away.
“Everything is going to be alright,” she told him, but in truth, she knew that it probably wasn’t. If she could wrap the injury and take him back to the base, there was a chance, however slight that chance was, that he would be able to keep his leg. But she knew that it was not likely. She lathered the wound in antiseptic cream and wrapped it with the gauze, as the boy muffled his cries behind a grimy hand. He coughed again, another dribble of blood escaping his lips as he did so.
“Where else are you hurt?” her voice was empty, loss of all feeling. The horrors of war did that to you.
The boy opened his mouth, and then thought better of it, turning his shoulder toward her. Nodding her head, Fara turned him over. She gasped. The gash on his back was long and deep. She could tell that it was a few days old by the yellow and green rings to it. Blue lines crawled over his back and she realised with alarm that he had blood-poisoning.
A dry rasping noise came from the boy and Fara could just recognise them as words, “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
Fara looked the boy in the eyes. He didn’t look scared, or even in pain. The look in his eyes was that of bravery and strength. He knew he was going to die, but he also knew that he had done the best he could to serve his country. With tears running down her face, Fara reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle. In it was the substance that the world needed the most. What everyone was fighting for.
Water.
Wiping away the tears, Fara unscrewed the cap and brought the precious substance to the boy’s parched lips. It was all she was going to get for the rest of the week, two gulps at the most, yet she knew that what she was doing was the right thing.
“Drink,” she whispered.
And he did.
“Take this one back to base,” a gruff voice whispered into her ear. And then she was left alone in the approaching darkness.
The sounds of gunshots and cries of pain were almost too much to bear in the receding daylight, washing over Fara in a wave of agony and grief. With each bang and each cry, it was as if someone was shooting at her as well. Hundreds of thousandths of people were dying out there, and not one person was able to stop it, or, more likely, didn’t want to stop it.
The body in her arms groaned, and Fara was forced to take action. She didn’t want to. She would have been content with just crawling into a hole and dying of thirst. Or be shot and killed instantly. Whichever came first, but she knew she couldn’t. She had a duty to her country and she would stand by that duty.
The boy, for she realised it was a boy now, coughed. A spray of blood escaped his dry lips to coat the front of her white nurse’s dress. Definitely not a good sign.
Placing the boy onto the ground, Fara checked him over. He couldn’t have been much older than her sixteen years of age, his face still showing signs of boyishness. But inside, she knew that just like herself, he was much older. No one could escape war and not have changed. The boy had a gunshot wound on his upper thigh. Blood was seeping out of the wound and pooling around his leg. Just by looking at it Fara could tell that he had already lost a lot of blood. Taking a deep breath, Fara ripped the pant leg off. The gunshot was even more gruesome than she had originally thought, the skin of his thigh a bloody mess. Swallowing her revolt, Fara pressed her hand into the wound, in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, and dug her other hand into her bag. After a few moments of rummaging, she pulled out a roll of gauze and a small jar filled with antiseptic cream. The boy moaned again, clutching his injured leg. Fara gently pushed his fingers away.
“Everything is going to be alright,” she told him, but in truth, she knew that it probably wasn’t. If she could wrap the injury and take him back to the base, there was a chance, however slight that chance was, that he would be able to keep his leg. But she knew that it was not likely. She lathered the wound in antiseptic cream and wrapped it with the gauze, as the boy muffled his cries behind a grimy hand. He coughed again, another dribble of blood escaping his lips as he did so.
“Where else are you hurt?” her voice was empty, loss of all feeling. The horrors of war did that to you.
The boy opened his mouth, and then thought better of it, turning his shoulder toward her. Nodding her head, Fara turned him over. She gasped. The gash on his back was long and deep. She could tell that it was a few days old by the yellow and green rings to it. Blue lines crawled over his back and she realised with alarm that he had blood-poisoning.
A dry rasping noise came from the boy and Fara could just recognise them as words, “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
Fara looked the boy in the eyes. He didn’t look scared, or even in pain. The look in his eyes was that of bravery and strength. He knew he was going to die, but he also knew that he had done the best he could to serve his country. With tears running down her face, Fara reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle. In it was the substance that the world needed the most. What everyone was fighting for.
Water.
Wiping away the tears, Fara unscrewed the cap and brought the precious substance to the boy’s parched lips. It was all she was going to get for the rest of the week, two gulps at the most, yet she knew that what she was doing was the right thing.
“Drink,” she whispered.
And he did.