Silence had fallen among a land of a thousand gun shots. The cold air whipped through the desert lands, catching on the clothes of those who had fallen. As Georgie managed to find her feet, taking in the horrors around her, she could see her section lying on the floor around her; Captain James, Maisie, Rab, Brains, Fingers.
Fingers. A pang of pain rippled through her, followed by one of guilt. Her sister had supported her in the weeks and months following Elvis' death; stroking her hair as she cried, coaxing her out of bed when nothing else could, trying anything and everything to just keep her being… well, her. Now it would be her turn to do the same. She wasn't sure she could; would she be strong enough to hold her sister in her darkest hours, as she did for her, knowing it was her fault?
God, it was all her fault.
One body caught her eye. It was unlike the others. Instead of being covered in blood and mud, it was charcoaled. Blood spilling from his left ear onto the floor. Heaving for breath, wheezing the whole time, desperate the whole time.
It was almost instinctive; before she could even recognise what was happening, her feet had begun to move, running towards him. Tears began to prick in her eyes and panic coarse through her veins.
Elvis.
Elvis was here. And he was alive. She could save him, unlike the others who were cold, unmoving corpses.
When she reached his body, her training kicked in.
"Elvis, can you hear me?" She trembled at first, realising she was his only hope to save him. She began checking him body over for bleeds, her eyes resting on his face the whole time. He was bleeding from his ear, which indicated a brain injury of some sort, most likely catastrophic, "It's Georgie. I'm going to save you ok? Can you tell me if any of this hurts?" She tried to sound more self-assured, knowing that the key to the patients confidence was your own. She continued her checks, knowing already that while he was breathing, it was shaky. He needed an emergency evacuation if she was going to save him.
"Georgie…" He started, but a coughing fit came over him.
"Elvis, its ok, you hear me? I've got you, ok? You're going to be fine, we just need to get you out of here." She was saying most of this to assure herself, not him. She couldn't lose him. Not again. She couldn't handle going through that again. Now was her chance. Her final chance, "Just tell me if any of this hurts." she says, continuing with her checks. She was moving on airplane mode, following the steps that had been drilled into her in training and that she had repeated countless times after that.
"Georgie…" he repeated, "You can't save me". His voice was merely a whisper now, shaking as he struggled to catch his breaths.
"Yes, I can Elvis. I'm a medic. Just hang on in there and let me save you and you can thank me for it later by buying me a pint, ok" she joked, reaching for her radio to call in the emergency evacuation, having finished her CBAC's. She fumbled around, trying to locate it before it struck her.
She has no radio.
"You can't save me. You couldn't then and you can't now. You let me die Georgie." Elvis whispered, clinging to her wrist, nails digging into her skin. His breath became even shorter and shakier, before ceasing completely.
She screamed, bolting upright in her bed, covered in sweat, heart pounding in her ears.
She looked around her, seeing everyone sleeping soundly in their beds, not disturbed by her night terrors. They had gotten used to it, overtime and now managed to sleep soundly through them, as you do with main road traffic and trainlines that you live by. They were almost part of the furniture for them.
Not for her though. Georgie would never get used to them. Every night, Elvis commanded her dreams. Taking her through the best parts of their relationship or to the worst battlefields she could ever imagine.
He always died though. Nothing she could ever do would stop him dying. Over and over again, she would lose him and the grief would coarse through her when she woke. It was like losing him every night.
She sometimes wishes she could escape these dreams. Go back to the nights where she would sleep like a log, no memories or nightmares controlling her slumber.
But then she would never see him again.
Sometimes, she almost welcomes the sleep, knowing it would be her only time with him. She would never tell her psychiatrist that. They'd probably write a whole book on the seven shades of crazy that the army had made her. She would never marry him, have kids with him or grow old telling their war stories to their friends over a game of poker.
But he was always there with her at night.
As she lay back down in her creaky bed in the barracks, she prayed for a good one. One which started with the best of her time with Elvis. She knew he would die in the end, as he did every time.
But she would give anything to relive her time with him. And at night, she did.