"Pass me that cloth over there," the woman Emilie had since learned was called Rene ordered the soldier, pointing to a large, boiling pot, "I was sanitizing it for reuse when I heard the gunfire."

Rene was setting up a stand for the plasma while Emilie bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop herself from crying out. She wasn't going to show them she was in pain. She had once seen a man bite off his own tongue doing the same thing: trying not to scream. But she was willing to risk that. She was dead anyway.

The soldier handed Rene the cloth that was stained a soft pink with blood, showing it had unsuccessfully tried to be washed out, and she instructed him to inject some morphine into Emilie's thigh. He did as he was told. Oh, what a good little soldier.

Rene wiped at the wound with the cloth. "She's lost a lot of blood," she muttered to herself, continuing to clean the wound. The only light came from a single lamp that was positioned beside Emilie, almost blinding her. She was lying in what must have been the chapel. She was once again fading in and out of consciousness.

The soldier stood awkwardly. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

Rene didn't look up as she answered, "Yes. Talk to her, make sure she doesn't fall asleep."

Emilie felt Rene lean over and fumble for something, before she felt a sharp pain in her ankle as the nurse began to search for the bullet; it hadn't been a clean shot, and Emilie had felt the piece of metal imbedded in her skin the entire time. It hadn't been a pleasant feeling; every time she had shifted, it had rubbed against her muscles.

The soldier pulled up a chair and sat down by her head. "Um," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a Texan accent. "Well, truth be told, I don't rightly know what to say right now that could make anything better. But the nurse said not to let you fall asleep, little lady, and, well, she's the boss. So, don't fall asleep or I'll have hell to pay."

The morphine had started to take effect, but she could still feel Rene poking around her foot. "It's hard to fall asleep with a bullet wedged in my ankle," she replied, eyelids heavy and voice slurred.

Eddie's eyes lit up. "You're Australian!" He smiled, "Boy, I told those jackasses out there you ain't a Kraut. Wait till I tell 'em they were wrong. It'll be great."

"Good to know someone gets fun out of my pain," she grumbled.

His eyes widened in alarm. "Well, now, it ain't like that," he insisted, "Don't take it the wrong way, ma'am."

She wanted to crack open his skull for the part he had had to play in Drechsler's death. Oh, how she wanted to. But she couldn't. She had to play the part of an innocent bystander, because that was what had had asked her to do. So, instead, she mumbled, "By the way, I'm not a camp-follower."

He blushed furiously, but, before he could try to backtrack what the others had said, Rene pulled out the bullet, making Emilie cry out in pain. So much for remaining strong and defiant. Eddie awkwardly attempted to soothe her.

The Belgian nurse started to stitch up the gaping wound that Emilie could feel was still oozing blood, and she hoped that the needle was sterilised. Her body couldn't handle an infection at the moment. Emilie attempted to hum 'God Save The Queen' to herself to distract herself from the burning sensation in her foot, but her humming broke off regularly as she let out barely stifled cries of pain.

Rene then proceeded to rub powder and disinfectant into the wound, and began to bandage it. She glanced at the bag of plasma dangling over Emilie's head. "Your body is eating up the plasma," she told Emilie, a triumphant edge to her soft voice. Emilie remembered the first time she had saved someone's life as a nurse. It had been the best feeling in the world. Things had quickly gone downhill from there. It slightly irritated her to be spoken down to, as though she didn't know what was happening, but she remained silent. Rene continued, walking around to face her patient, "That's a good sign. I think you'll live, but you'll be on crutches for a while." She smiled sadly, a haunted look lurking in her eyes that only someone who has seen death firsthand can have, "We'll move you to a cot and leave you to rest."

Emilie nodded, not sure if she had heard that right. She was going to live? That was the worst news she had had all day.

Eddie had since carried her back into the larger room that stunk of death, and had placed her on a free cot along the stairwell, with Rene wheeling the plasma behind him. She had then disappeared and come back a minute later holding a glass of water, which she placed on the ground beside Emilie's cost.

"You must be very dehydrated," she had explained in her kind voice, "Drink this whenever you need, and just ask me or any of the other nurses if you need a refill."

"Room-service," Emilie had mumbled into the cot, exhausted and sorrow taking over. Eddie had chuckled at that, before tipping his helmet, smiling at her, saying something she had only been half-listening to about hoping she recovers and that he might drop by to check on her if that's okay with her. When she hadn't replied, having only laid there with her eyes closed, he had let out a light, nervous laugh before walking back up the stairs. Rene had checked the bandages on her ankle once more before leaving too.

The milky dawn sun was already beginning to stream in through the stain glass windows in the other rooms. For the first time in so long, Emilie let sleep claim her. But it was anything but restful. It was filled with Drechsler's mangled, rotten body, rasping that she had done this to him. She begged him for forgiveness, but he only laughed, his mouth stretching impossibly wide, allowing maggots and cockroaches to crawl from it and drop to the ground. When she tried to run, they crawled up her legs, gluing her to the spot, ignoring her screams as every person she had ever lost joined the ranks. She remembered every one of their faces. Drechsler picked up little three year old Margaret, the first patient she had ever lost back in Australia. She had died of food-poisoning, and after losing her baby and only daughter, Margaret's mother had suicided.

"You didn't save us," little Margaret growled in a deep, distorted voice, "You were right there, Emilie, and you let us die."

"You didn't do anything, Emilie," Eichmann taunted, blood smeared across his face, "We're dead because of you."

"No!" Emilie cried desperately, struggling to break free of the bugs, "No, I tried! I'm so sorry! Please."

Drechsler's remark hurt the most: "Why don't you just kill yourself and stop using up oxygen? You're useless, Emilie. Everyone hates you. I hated you. I felt sorry for you. You're pathetic. I let myself die just to get away from you."

Emilie was in tears. It was true. Everything they were saying was true. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, crumbling to her knees, "I-I tried."

"Well, you should have tried harder!" The last face she saw was Eugene, standing beside Drechsler, looking down at her with an expression of pure loathing.

Emilie started awake, almost falling off of the cot. She was gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face and dropping down to stain her clothes. Her palms were sweaty, her heart racing, mind working overdrive in terror. Was she going to get Eugene killed, too?

A/N: Why did I get such immense pleasure out of writing that disturbing dream sequence I don't even. :3

xx