Herro, minna-san! :) Back again~ This one's a little depressing. Basically, we had to write a short story in 1st person about WWI. I wrote fanfiction, of course. XD So here it is, my little gem! ;) I hope you like it, 'cause I certainly do! ^_^
Set during the civil war between Amestris and Ishbal - the FMA equivalent of WWI.
I sat in the waiting room, shifting in my seat, unable to sit still for more than a few seconds at a time. I hadn't done this off my own back - it was the doctor's recommendation. I honestly didn't know if I would be able to hold it together. I was barely able to act normal even while keeping my mind busy with other things - cooking food, redressing wounds, watering the flowers. If I couldn't stay sane even while avoiding the subject, how was I supposed to cope while being questioned about it?
"Elizabeth Richards," the assistant read. A shaky woman in her mid-forties stood up, supporting herself on the coffee table. She looked seriously shaken up - I wondered if I looked like that. "Come this way, please," the same soft, masculine voice spoke as the woman neared the wrong door. After nearly a minute of failed efforts, the young man gave up and guided her by the shoulders to the correct door - the one furthest from my seat. I briefly considered the idea that maybe choosing the seat farthest from anyone else was a symptom of some underlying mental illness awoken by the traumatic events I'd just been through. Maybe it was serious - maybe I'd only have a year to live.
I sighed at the ridiculous thought and brushed it away. Maybe I really was going crazy.
I decided to ponder the idea of insanity awhile longer, since it didn't look like the assistant would be back anytime soon. If I really did go insane, I thought, would that mean I wouldn't be able to perform my services anymore? My brow furrowed at the idea. As much as I hated the killing aspect of the military, I didn't mind my job, and my relatively high rank meant a pretty hefty paycheck. If I wasn't in the military anymore, I'd be seen as weak and soft-minded, and the guys would ridicule me - though it would probably be explained by the simple, sexist fact that I'm a woman. Anger bubbled inside me at the thought, though it was swiftly replaced by determination. No, I'm definitely going back. Although I guess, in the end, it's the doctor's choice as to whether I'm mentally competent enough.
"Riza Hawkeye," the assistant read aloud. I started at the sound of my name, visibly jumping out of my chair. As I passed the attendant in the doorway I muttered, "I'm fine,", although the unprofessional doubt on his face told me he thought otherwise.
I was led through numerous dark, winding corridors before I reached the doctor's examination room - although it might have just been two corridors and a staircase. I wasn't so sure anymore.
When I stood outside the door, I waited for the assistant to leave and return to watch the waiting room. When he made no move to do so, I shot an intense glare his way, strong enough to send him bolting in the opposite direction. I guessed being in the military did do some good for me, after all.
I knocked sharply thrice, and didn't wait for a reaction as I swiftly entered and shut the door behind me.
The doctor looked me up and down, taking in my red-stained military uniform and the dark circles under my eyes, and I did the same. He was old, possibly in his sixties - although it might just have been the stress of his job as a psychiatrist that turned his hair white. Hidden in the many wrinkled folds of his face were two blue eyes, still bright with life.
Although I didn't let any of this affect my judgement of him. You know what they say - "don't judge a book by its cover". Instead, I faced him with an indifferent façade. I'd let his actions decide whether I could trust him enough to have a breakdown in front of him.
"Hello," he said, smiling like a grandfather would to his long-lost granddaughter.
"Hello," I replied, my strict, formal response the blunt opposite of his warm welcome.
After a few moments of tense silence, he ventured, "Why don't you sit down?"
Just so you can see me closer up, I mirthlessly thought. No thanks. "I'd rather stand."
The doctor looked somewhat disappointed for a second, before recomposing his face into what was supposed to be a comforting grin. It just made him look like a crazy serial killer.
At least, to my eyes it did.
"If that's how you would be more comfortable, then I can work with that." His tone was quiet and soft - much like the attendant's. His 'aura', however, was cool and businesslike... and scrutinising. You tend to become able to pick up on these things when you're in the military for too long.
Having decided he was of no immediate threat, I gave into the temptation my wobbling legs were teasing me with and sat down rather gracelessly on the worn faux leather chair roughly two metres from the metal chair the doctor sat in.
His smile became slightly less plastic, and he spoke again. "So, let's start with introductions, shall we? I'm Dr. Rivers. As you probably already know, I'm your psychologist. No, I don't like to use that word. It sounds... medical. Medical and practical. To you, I want to be your friend, not just someone you go to because your doctor will tell you off otherwise." He chuckled at some private joke. "Call me whatever you want, whatever you feel comfortable with - John, Doctor, Dr. Rivers. I don't mind.
"Anyway, enough about me. Would you mind telling me who you are? It would be nice if I had something to address you by."
I took a few seconds to wash off the layers of pretty paint on those words, and, after finding nothing threatening, relaxed my shoulders minutely and replied confidently, "Riza. Riza Hawkeye."
The doctor nodded, processing the information. "So, Riza - do you mind if I call you that? - I presume you are here because of the war?"
I nodded slowly in response.
"In case you're wondering, I could tell by your uniform." Translation: Don't worry, it's normal for war victims to suffer from paranoia.
I nodded again, not revealing anything by my actions - not even my mood.
"Do you... want to tell me what it's like being in the military?" Translation: Tell me what's wrong and I might be able to find some risky drug to give you to help.
I sighed. The voice in my head was distracting me from the conversation at hand, and it took all my effort to hold myself in the reality of this moment - where I was a possibly mentally ill war victim missing my left eye, three fingers on my right hand and my best friend, and he was my doctor, trying to give me a painless transition into my 'therapeutic' environment.
Nothing more, nothing less.
"Hello? Riza? Are you all right?" Dammit.
"I-I'm fine," I murmured, trying not to look too flustered about the fact that I'd drifted off into lala-land and he'd caught me unawares.
"Pardon me for being rude, but you don't seem fine to me. Care to tell me what's wrong?"
I sighed. What's the harm in telling him? You may as well have someone to confide in. Even if they may be some spy from Ishbal, or someone the military's sent to get rid of me once and for-
I sighed again, this time heavier, slapping the rude thought around the face a few times until it retreated. I slumped back in my seat, completely letting down my guard, although offering no verbal response to the doctor's question.
He sat there, clipboard in hand, waiting patiently for me to say something.
After some unknown period of time went by (I'd begun to get into a bad habit of completely losing track of time), I finally sighed again, preparing to talk like a good little girl. I seem to be sighing a lot today.
"Sleep."
"Sleep?"
"More like no sleep."
When I offered no elaboration, the doctor asked for it. "Care to tell me why?"
"The nightmares. It's the nightmares."
"Nightmares about what?" he asked, hurriedly adding at the look on my face, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, of course."
"No," I sighed. "The nightmares... They... They're like flashbacks, sort of." The doctor nodded, understanding. "Like I'm reliving the war again. Except, in the nightmares, I don't know that they're nightmares. They always seem so real. I don't realise they're just dreams until I wake up, and by then I know it's too late, and I can't get back to sleep for the rest of the night."
The doctor nodded. "Don't worry, that's perfectly normal for cases like yours. There's no need to be anxious - the dreams should stop once you're stable again." I nodded, vaguely relieved, although a sensible part of me told me I knew this already.
"How much sleep would you say you get per night?"
"About... two hours? Maybe three or four on a good night. One or less on a bad one."
The doctor nodded. To me, that's all he seemed to do. Where was the comfort? Where was the therapy?
He spent a few minutes noting down various thoughts in short-hand - my sneaking suspicions told me it wasn't so as not to waste time, but more so to stop me from reading them - pushing up his glasses after every few lines.
"Mm-hmm," he murmured, before setting his clipboard down gently on the sterilised wooden table beside him. "Here's something for the sleep."
He handed me a brown-tinted pill bottle. I turned it over in my hand and read the smudged label out loud. "Sleeping... pills?" I mouthed the words carefully, squinting to read the small print on the already tiny container.
"Yes. On first glance, it seems that you will likely improve if you get a normal amount of sleep. Most people act strangely if they're repeatedly surviving off only a few hours sleep or less. Take those, and tell me if you're feeling better by next week."
"... Mm." I murmured, not bothering to form any proper words. Well, at least the doctor was good for something.
"Well, let's carry on, shall we?" A subtle prompt for me to start concentrating more. Lovely.
"Yes. That would probably be a good idea." Fight fire with fire. But... this isn't even a fight. What...?
"Excuse me? Riza?" Dammit!
"Yes, right." I cleared my throat, wanting to avoid the subject of my constant slipping out of reality. "Should I continue with the nightmares?"
"If that is what you wish to do, then go ahead. I'm only here to listen." As if to emphasize the point, Dr. Rivers leaned back in his metal chair (surely that must have been uncomfortable) and crossed his legs and arms, a reassuring smile on his face. Despite this, though, I couldn't tell if it was genuine because of the irritating reflections of the summer sun on his glasses, concealing his shifty eyes.
... Hang on, shifty?
"The nightmares... are, as I said before, of the battlefield." Stay calm. "Mostly of the attacks and bomb droppings, but occasionally of something completely unrelated." Breathe. "Those times, it's usually about my... best friend." I ended the sentence far quieter than I had begun it, restraining myself from crying in front of a stranger for pure pride's sake. "In those nightmares, it's usually just her and I, maybe talking, or playing chess, or eating dinner together. Like we used to do on our breaks, or even in the camps. You know, before everything turned... nasty." I gulped. "They're often happy memories, but near the end, they become distorted, and Rebecca says things she would never say to me. Her body starts... rotting, almost, and she starts attacking me or screaming at me or both, asking why I... why I chose my own life over hers." At this point I audibly choked back a tear, and bit down on my lip hard enough for that all-too-familiar coppery taste to flood my mouth and assault my taste buds with the vicious memories coming back all over again.
After I didn't speak for several more minutes, the doctor's kind face morphed into one of curiosity. "Do you know why she asks you that?"
"Because it's true," I whispered, like a lost child.
"Would you mind explaining?"
I sighed, closing my eyes, mentally bracing myself for the enormous psychological meteor that was due to hit in about three seconds. "It was... about six months into the war..."
Flashback
"Yo! Rizzy!" Rebecca marched up to me, mocking a formal salute at the rank between us.
I turned, and a broad smile quickly spread across my face. "Hey, Rebecca."
"So, how's life?" she asked, a childish grin gracing her pink skin.
I rolled my eyes at the question. "Probably the same as yours. One rank doesn't do much in this mess."
She looked disappointed for a second at my - she later referred to it as 'boring' - answer, and continued to try to get something interesting from me. "When's lunch?"
"You're far too relaxed, Rebecca," I scolded. "This is a war we're fighting, not just some scrabble like the ones you used to get into back home."
"Aww, you're too uptight, Rizzy." My eyes narrowed.
"Don't let the Colonel hear you calling me that. I'm your senior officer. You're supposed to show me some respect, not mock me and give me cute nicknames." My words were harsh, but the tone with which I was speaking told of a friendly argument with a subordinate.
"Yes, ma'am." Rebecca drew out the 'ma'am', making her sound like a teenager who'd just been told to do her homework.
It just made me laugh.
Rebecca scowled at me, and I swear she muttered, "Don't laugh at my pain."
"There'll be more where that came from if you don't hurry up and get the hell out of here. You're supposed to be in the camp opposite this one, right?"
"Yeah," she sighed. She spun around 360 degrees before marching backwards out of the khaki-coloured tent, not dropping the hand against her forehead until she was out of view.
I sighed, and put my head in my hands. If she didn't grow up soon, she was going to be in a ton of trouble. And with her reckless nature, it was scarily possible.
I whipped around, my head snapped towards the opposite camp, and I was halfway towards closing the gap between us less than a second after the deafening explosion.
No, no, no! I chanted the word in my head like a mantra. No way was Rebecca going to die. I wouldn't let her. If she did, I would resurrect her myself. God, she's going to be in a world of trouble when I get my hands on her.
"Rebecca!" I shouted, cupping my dirty hands around my mouth. When I received no answer, I pushed through the mound of rubble and torn tent that was an entrance less than a minute ago.
Inside, it was unimaginable. I would describe it as 'like a bomb had dropped'... but I think it had.
"Rebecca! REBECCA!" I tripped over a discarded first-aid kit and scrambled to my feet again, hooking the smashed handle onto my belt. I was probably going to need this.
I trudged through the demolition site, breathing heavily from yelling.
The next thing I remember was a strong blow to my back, rendering me temporarily immobile, and the sound of numerous guns being pointed at me and the few others who were searching in the rubble.
"Kill her," I heard in sickening Ishbalan. My heart leapt to my throat. If they killed me now, who would look for Rebecca? What would happen to her? Would she be left to die? Would the Ishbalans shoot her too?
"R-Riza..." I heard a pained rasp from somewhere to my north-west. I immediately turned my head to face the source of the sound, barely acknowledging the wary twitches and misfires of the guns aimed mere inches from my temple.
"R... Rebecca?" I whispered, hope rising once more.
"Riza..." she rasped again, this time clearer. I could see her now - she was working her way out from under a pile of rubble. Just at first glance I could make out the bones jutting out at unnatural angles and the twist in her spine that couldn't be a good sign.
I almost threw up right there and then.
"Riza..." she tried again, this time successfully regaining enough breath to whisper a single word to me. "Diamond."
My eyes widened. 'Diamond' was the codeword we'd decided on before the war. The one we hoped we'd never have to say, but one that would be necessary if in the presence of enemies who could speak basic English.
In short, it meant, 'Save yourself'.
With tears running down my cheeks, I shook my head, not wanting to accept the reality I was faced with. Either Rebecca acted decoy for me to escape, losing her own life in the process, or we were both shot right then and there.
It was a decision I had to make.
I closed my eyes, trying to stay oblivious to Rebecca's enraged roar and the startled cries from the men around me, and darted up and away from the cold metal. The men glanced at me, but they paid for their distraction with their limbs as Rebecca sliced them apart with the blade strapped to her belt for gun-less emergencies. I carried on running, away from the soldiers. Away from the enemies. Away from the bombsite now crawling with military men from both sides.
Away from Rebecca.
End Flashback
I only realised I was crying after the doctor quietly offered me a pale blue handkerchief. I balked briefly at the implication of the handkerchief passing before my eyes, but took it in stride and let my emotions get the better of me, even for just that short moment.
I don't know how long it took for me to stop crying. The doctor just sat there, looking at me sympathetically the entire time. He made no move to talk to me, to try to get me to stop crying or to comfort me. I appreciated that. Someone who would just let you cry when you needed to cry, without trying to make you feel better. Because in times like these, comforting someone sometimes just makes it worse.
By the time I'd stopped crying, I'd forgotten why I was crying in the first place. It was just a memory - a memory of a time that would soon be over. I was in the army, for god's sake. I shouldn't be crying over something like this. Or at least I should have the decency to cry in private.
I sniveled a few more times, and brushed the now soaked handkerchief against my cheeks before pocketing it. The doctor was, well, a doctor, so I doubted he'd have much use for a handkerchief which could be breeding all sorts of bacteria.
I returned to my straight-backed sitting position and looked boldly forward, choosing to remain ignorant of the blotchy pink streaks lining my face.
The doctor smiled at me, even though he knew it would have no effect. "We seem to have come much farther than I expected in this session. Let's keep a positive mind - or a negative one if you'd prefer - and stay alive until we next meet." He winked, although his tone was solemn.
I barely suppressed a smile at the jokingly serious remark. Because right now, dying was a serious option for me.
I just hope it won't turn out that way.
How was it? :)
I'M SO SORRY REBECCA. I HONESTLY DIDN'T WANT TO KILL YOU. D:
Review? ;)