Marcus looked down at his stomach and made
his peace with death. It was funny — he decided — that despite the dark red of
his uniform, he could tell exactly which parts were blood. It had been a
bayonet. Perhaps a knife. Some hazy part of his mind — the part that had stood on a stool at his
mother's side and watched her perform surgeries with deft hands — told him to collect bandages, bathe the wound and stitch
it up. The rational part told him to sit exactly where he was and let himself
die on the battlefield.
"Here," there was a hand waving in
his face. It held a flask; brown leather and metal stitched tightly together.
"You want a drink?"
The figure attached to the flask was dressed
in black. It slumped down next to him, long legs folding onto the grey stone.
"Please," Marcus' lips were dryer
than they were a minute ago. He grabbed the proffered flask and unscrewed it,
greedily swallowing. It burned the back of his throat and for a moment his eyes
watered and he choked. The coughing made the pain in his side worse; twisting
like a corkscrew.
"You're alright lad. Come now. Have
another sip," the words came from the mysterious man in black. Marcus
looked at him, trying to focus. He was older — grey haired and lined face, blue
eyes staring out amongst crows feet. He smiled with one side of his mouth.
"Looks like you're hurt. Want me to have a look at it?"
"Are you a surgeon?" Marcus tipped
more of the whiskey down his throat. There, perhaps the pain was a little
number now.
"No, not in the slightest. But I could
help."
"You can't," Marcus shook his head.
"My mother was a surgeon. If she could see me now she'd already be burning
candles in my memory. You can't fix me."
"If that's what you want. Mind if I have
a drink?"
Marcus returned the flask.
The older man lifted his hand away from his
right side as he reached for it. That too, was blood red. He grimaced as he
took a gulp from the flask and refastened it, clamping his hand back to his
side again.
"They say abdomen wounds are the most
painful to die from," Marcus said lazily. Really, when you thought about
it, the stone was quite comfortable.
"Thank you for your reassuring
words," his companion chuckled dryly. "I take the red means you're with the Columbines?"
"Yes," Marcus waved his hand in the
hazy air in front of him. The flask was placed into it. "Columbines. What
about you?"
"No, I'm with General Krynesberg."
"Ah,"
"Ah indeed. Pass the flask, lad."
It swapped hands again. The brown leather was
stained with blood now; almost black in color.
"What are you out here for? You're old
for a soldier." Marcus asked
"Funny ideas get into your head when
you're old. You like things the way they are."
"The Columbines wanted to change
things..."
There had been rallies. At first they'd been angry students
standing on a quad hundreds of years old and shouting at stone buildings facing
them down. Then there had been occupations, sit-ins — protests. It had become violent and students had started
creating Molotov cocktails with rum and ripped up clothes. That was when the
General had retaliated.
"Some say too much." The older man
leant his head back against the rocks behind them.
"Maybe," Marcus hummed. "Do
you think this means we get to go home?"
The older man glanced down at him and then at
the desiccated battlefield.
Hundreds of red bodies, still holding scraps of homemade weapons, lay scattered
amongst the smoking rubble and twisted metal of a carrion-city. It could have been a clean come morning. The General liked order, after all.
"What's home for you, lad?" He said
softly.
"It's just my mother. She's called Lena
and she's lovely."
The old man stiffened as Marcus' breaths
began to judder as he breathed in and out. His hand slipped away from his side
and the older man pressed the flask into it, helping Marcus get it to his mouth
and take another sip. The boy's eyes had gone hazy — a film of tears over them.
"Tell me about your mother. Is she
well?" He asked.
"She's doing great. She's been lonely,
with me away. But it'll be alright, because I'll be back soon. I'll get a job
this time, so she doesn't have to work any more." Marcus heaved another breath and closed
his eyes, tears beginning to slip out from under his eyelids.
"Hush, you'll be fine." The older man pushed Marcus' hair
back from his face, feeling his own wound protest at the movement. His side was wet.
"I'll go home, you know," Marcus
offered, eyes still closed.
"I know, I know." But the boy had
gone still and the old man could feel his fingertips go cold. He took one last sip
from the flask and refastened it, empty. "I know, lad..."
