"Tell me a story…" she cooed as she eyed him adoringly, her voice velvety smooth despite the laudanum.
He gulped, trying his best to stall and hoping the drugs would sedate her to the extent that she was comfortable—or at least as comfortable as possible.
"'Bout you," she pressed him, holding him hostage with her sultry gaze.
It all came flooding back as he plunged his knife into the orange, it's pulpy flesh mocking him. He grimaced as he turned away from her, squeezing the fruit harder than necessary into her glass for a refill.
They found the mangy bitch cowering in the shadow of what remained of a barn earlier that day. She was a scrawny little thing, her black and gray fur matted in neglect, barely older than a pup but at least she wasn't a fucking poodle. Bates clubbed her over the head, but he was charged with skinning and dismembering her.
He told himself it was no different than a rabbit. That it was fresh meat, not that shit they'd been eating for weeks that (ironically) looked and tasted like dog food. They all had stew that night. A rare hot supper, his belly almost full for the first time in ages.
It was a good thing, too, because it was his turn for night patrol. It didn't scare him anymore, he stopped giving a fuck the third time out and that was months ago. He cleaned his weapons, blackened his face with cork and reported to his CO five minutes early.
Fucking Smitty was late as usual. The new kid was shaking like a leaf, so much so that Jimmy almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Up they went, but the other man hadn't tied one of his boots tightly enough, tripping out of the parapet and giving away their position.
The shelling threw him at least fifteen feet and he landed with a thud on his right leg, shattering and exposing his femur. The more he struggled the deeper he sank into the muck and mire. Though it was a mild night he was freezing, very much aware that he was rapidly bleeding out and there was nothing he could do about it. His immune system compromised from spending months in a trench, it wasn't long before infection set in and his fever was dangerously high.
He looked up at the night sky, hearing the guns in the distance and the glow of the shells. His lips were moving, but he was deliriously unaware that nothing was coming out. No. He was singing. He was on a beach. Fourth of July. Fireworks.
The Army found him late the following morning on a recovery mission. It was only when he moved spontaneously that they realized he was still alive, however barely.
He didn't tell her any of this. Instead he pulled her close, hushed his voice, and told her the tale that had kept him sane in his own time of need. That…that was a good day.