Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, I'm simply borrowing
Not beta'd or brit-picked
On the vacant letter
Hi Mum,
See I'm not forgetting to write you.
I just wanted to let you know that I'm well, just like always.
It's quite beautiful here – the desert isn't all sand, there are cities and high grass out there.
Snow-white mountain tops and sometimes there is so much fog up there, that it reminds me of London.
The people and the markets and the sun, it all is very picturesque, peaceful.
Right now the sun is shining and everything's fine.
You know it's not horrible or scary here – it's just Afghanistan.
I won't tell you about the problems we encounter or how hard it is to march under the scorching sun and on the not-existing roads.
I won't mention how there is a war going on and how the newspapers never write about the people dying on our enemies' side. They, too, have families.
I won't confide that often it seems as though the explosions of IED and the sounds of gunfire create the tact and rhythm to my work.
Sometimes I wonder if I will ever forget the sound of helicopters and army boots on sand.
It makes me feel high, the adrenaline and the sense of belonging here.
I dreamt about home.
How are you all?
I hope you're not worrying too much.
Is dad getting along with his new colleges?
How's sis doing at the university?
Send me some pictures of Harry and her girlfriend, won't you?
I won't tell you that I desperately need faces to replace the ones burned in my memory – of patients struggling, of children crying, of comrades dying.
I won't mention the bitter days in May, because that makes me thing of mayday although I realise that no one can help you here, if you don't help yourself.
I won't confide that dad ranting about his petty problems made me furious, because it's so mundane, so dull, so pointless, when you're at war. He shouldn't talk about killing someone – he has no idea what that entails.
Sometimes I wonder if your everyday life is important enough for me to wonder. Whether I shouldn't worry more about the supplies or about treating a shrapnel wound.
It makes me feel ashamed and guilty.
Could you invite Mary more often, please?
Oh right, tell here that I love her. That she should wait for me.
I will return for sure, so I won't keep her waiting too long. Tell her, yeah?
I'm John Watson and nothing like her brother. There will be more left of me than a letter of condolence and a medal.
I won't tell you that her brother and I have quite a few things in common. We both actively decided on a career in the Army, we're both selfish, we both disappointed Mary. The only difference is me being alive.
I won't mention my wish to enlist for a second tour, because it is bound to upset all of you. I don't feel like explaining myself. I can't.
I won't confide that while thing of Mary I found it hard to remember the details of her appearance that I found most endearing. The crinkles around her eyes when she laughs or the way her bottom lip juts slightly forward when she's agitated – I know that I fell in love with them, but it's as though the fog slipped from the mountains and right over her face.
Sometimes I wonder if I love the adrenaline and sense of purpose this war is giving me more than I ever loved Mary.
It makes me feel a juxtaposition of wrong and right.
I have to go now, but I promise to write again.
Sending you my love,
John
Just no longer the John you used to know so well. However, this is something you are bound to know, even if I don't include it in this letter.
A mother always knows, after all.
Fin
Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed the story and that I did the character of John justice. I apologize for any mistakes that I'm bound to have made as English is not my first language.
Reviews are always greatly appreciated!