A/N:CONTENT WARNING: Character death, description of death, mention of violence, mention of (attempted) suicide.

July 3, 1863, Washington, D.C.

Third and final day of the battle in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

The high hopes of the new year were short lived. The beat of the war was relentless, and whereas in the early stages of war he'd been able to save face and force himself to endure, the false hope of the new year stripped away his defenses and laid him bare. Every battle, every day, every skirmish and outbreak of disease left him gasping and groaning for respite. Even in May, when his army had seen such streaks of success, it was often too much to bear. If New Year's Day had built him up, the rest of the year so far had razed him to the ground, until there was nothing left but his skin and bones—and even those, it seemed, often found their breaking point.

He'd spent the entire day screaming and bleeding. He'd spent the last several days screaming, in fact, mind set aflame by a battle fought miles and miles away. He could no longer remember what day it was, or what year, or even how old he was. He couldn't even remember having ever been born, but he knew he must've been born at some point, and resented it immensely. He'd had a name, but he now forgot it too often to care. The days themselves melded together in this underground hell, neither day nor night, summer nor winter, awake nor asleep. This cell was built for a dead man, and every day he woke up alive the irony hurt a little more.

Pain welled up from the ether, digging into his stomach like a thousand bayonets, and he screamed again. The sound echoed off the bare stone walls of his cell and the shrill timbre tore at his ears like nails against slate. He hated screaming, and he hated hearing himself scream. He hated everything. He hated himself.

"Stop," he sobbed to the silence of the floor, stomach aching from his wounds and from screaming. "Just stop, please, please just stop, stop it all, please," he clutched at his stomach and felt the hot blood welling up thick. It dribbled onto the ground and the warmth spread to his whole side as the puddle grew. Oh, he realized with a terrified moan, so it's going to be one of those days. He cried to the bare floor, trembling, waiting for the inevitable. He longed for a pillow, to bury his face into, or to clutch, or to kick, but there was nothing here for him. Only stone walls, a stone floor, and a locked iron door.

He could still faintly remember his cell as it'd been originally furnished. There'd been a small bed, a bookshelf, a writing desk and a coffee kit at his request. He'd had access to maps and the latest news, and had received mail, near the beginning. He'd been allowed hot water for coffee, and coals to warm his bed in the winter, and three square meals a day.

Then one day, in one of his fits, Andrew had fashioned all of his pens into daggers and tried to pick the lock and kill the guards. They'd taken away his writing desk and stationary before the day was up.

Then, he'd tried to hang himself with his bed sheets. They'd taken those away, and all his blankets, too.

Then Andrew had torn out the words in his books and used them to compose letters to the Confederates and tried to smuggle them out through a double-crossing guard. They'd court martialed the guard, and taken away all the books, even the Bible. That's also when they'd taken the coffee kit away, fearful of what he'd do with sterling silver (Andrew had been planning on sharpening the spoons into points using the grout between stone tiles as a file).

Then Andrew had taken the ropes from his bed frame and tried to strangle a guard at his mealtime. He'd succeeded. They'd taken away the bed frame. They even took his glasses away, afraid he could use the metal frames or lenses to hurt another guard—or himself.

The mattress was last. They'd only taken that away after he'd died on it and left it beyond repair. They replaced it for when he woke up. Then he'd died again, and again, and sometime in perhaps April, they'd stopped trying, and replaced his bed with an open pile of straw. There was a war on. There was not enough time or money to stuff a new mattress each time Alfred Jones bled himself out in a prison cell.

Alfred Jones. That was his name. He'd nearly forgotten it again. Alfred Jones. The name sounded indistinct in his mind, mixed with hundreds and thousands of others as they paraded themselves in shrieks and groans for his individual consideration. Blood flowed out of his side and in his mind. So much blood. So much fear. So much death. All those names had all died today, or the day before.

Maybe that was why he was remembering his name now. He'd be joining them in mere moments, it was only right for his name to join the day's list of dead. He'd come back, unlike them, and that was worse than knowing he was dying. He'd come back and it'd hurt even worse than it had the last time, because it always did. They would clean up his corpse and wash the blood from his cell, and they'd lock the body back in the same cell with a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread, and they'd leave him there to resurrect alone. He'd wake up and panic when his body couldn't remember how to breathe, then he'd cry, and if they heard him, they wouldn't do anything about it.

Cold replaced the warmth at his side. It felt like cold from the stone tiles beneath him, but he'd been through this routine often enough to know better. It washed up through his body like a flood, taking his feet and hands first, then his arms and legs, then his face, ears, and eyes, then his lungs, and last of all, his heart.

Right before he died, Alfred remembered that tomorrow was his birthday.

Historical Notes:

Alright, so this was a super indulgent and angst-y chapter, and was actually the very first chapter that I wrote when I drafted this whole story. You didn't think I could let you off with that hopeful note last chapter, did you? Still, amid the angst, I do have a few quick historical notes.

1. The reason why this chapter is so dark is because Gettysburg was, in addition to being the turning point of the war, also the most deadly battle of the war. Unlike Antietam, which was the bloodiest (most deaths + injured), Gettysburg was the deadliest (most deaths).

2. Disease was a huge problem in the Civil War! A ton of soldiers did not actually survive long enough to die in battle, because they were taken early by various illnesses. Pneumonia, typhoid fever, dysentery, and malaria were some common culprits.