Noxi: Thank you so much for all of your love and support on this piece! This is for my favorite lady, that I love dearly, who never fails to make me feel like I'm the bees knees. You know who you are.

Previous Warnings and Disclaimers Still Apply

One Hundred and Twenty

1967 - Macon, Georgia

She was cleaning the dishes when the radio flicked over, and the voice of Eddie Hog came on, announcing the arrival of more troops to assist in "reclaiming Nam". She scoffed in the direction of the radio, 'bozo' slipping passed her lips in a sharp murmur as she dipped her hands into the sink full of water and soap, fishing for a plate. She pulled it out quick, splashing soap suds across her apron, and started vigorously scrubbing the plate.

It was a load of bullhockey. They'd been in Vietnam for near on ten years now, two of which had their soldiers on the ground, and they had nothingto show for it. Nothing but dead soldiers, widows, and abandoned children. She hated it. Hated that it left their country emotionally broken. But what she hated most was that not even her own husband had had the courage to join ( or the luck to be drafted ).

No. She was the lucky one whose husband was still here in the US. She was lucky because she didn't have to fear his death. She was lucky because he would still live. She wanted to laugh in God's face for such a cruel twist of fate. She wouldn't deny that she wanted her husband dead. Not after the years of bruises and scars that had left her broken and ugly, until she was a husk of hatred - - - and unable to do anything about it. She was stuck. Stuck in this place, with the same, despicable man she hadn't seen coming, and a war that would continue to take away everything.

She sighed, hands slowing as her fingers released the plate back into the water. She watched it slip slowly underneath until there was nothing left. She felt like that plate, slowly drowning with no way out. Plain, dirty, chipped. Used until there was nothing left, cleaned up and then used again.

A hoarse laugh erupted between her lips, stunting the sudden tears that tried to burn a trail across her cheek. She leaned forward, placing her weight in her palms as she gripped the sink and stared out the window, the guilt consuming her.

She hated her life, and yet, it was all she had. She took care of her husband, loved her daughter fiercely, and played the doting housewife. But it still felt like she was missing something inside. This was the life she had been dealt, and it was the one she had to live. There was nothing she could change about that.

– But.

It wasn't all she could do.

For nearly a year she had sent out letters. Letters upon letters upon letters. Addressed to no one, but sent to anyone. She had to do something. Needed to set her mind to something other than the daily monotony of her life. So she wrote letters. Short, quick notes of encouragement and positivity. Long, embarrassing letters where she talked about a life she'd never had, but had fantasized about for years. Letters where she wrote a quote, her favorite of the day, and described, in the fullest detail she could provide, the way sun had risen across the horizon, and the laughter of the woman in her impossibly high heels as she strut down the street. She'd talk of the way the rain would pelt against her roof, or the sound of glass shattering from the next door neighbor's house. And she'd finish it with "an insight into my day, in the hopes that you might forget about yours, if only for a brief moment." And she'd sign it "you are not forgotten."

She wouldn't know for sure if this was appropriate or not. Was it too naïve? Did she provide false hope and a childish outlook? Was the receiver of the letter laughing at her as he was entrenched in a battle that was his last? Or was it too poetic, too beautiful for a world that was stained red, the ground littered in flesh? Would anyone even care?

She had no way of knowing for not one letter was returned. She was beginning to lose hope - - - in herself.

She'd sat by for two years, watched the war play out over broadcasts, and listened to the radio talk about brave men dying for liberty. She laughed. Liberty? Liberty for who? Whose land were they fighting on, whose people were they dying for? Those 'brave men' were dying for a cause that didn't really mean anything to them. Two years of pain, suffering, death, and it was beginning to look as if it would never end.

And she had decided to do something. She wasn't going to stand by and be vigilant. She wasn't going to listen to her countrymen die without honor. She didn't want to watch them come home in boxes. She was tired of watching mothers, wives, sisters, children suffer. Fathers, brothers, lovers - - - never returned home. Never held their loved ones again.

She was tired.

And if they did return, it was in a box or to a life they could no longer live, with darkness etched in the crease beneath their eyes and a shadow that haunted them at every turn. They were never the same. Gone were the youthful smiles and harrowing tales of how they would have victory. Gone was the vigor, the life they had all held so precious once upon a time. Now they came back as husks, shattered on the inside. Still wounded even after they had been healed. The physical scars were nothing compared to the ones on the inside. All open, festering wounds, poisoning the blood. They were slowly dying, and no one cared to see it happen.

It was foolish, all so damn foolish. And they couldn't be fixed. She often wondered which was better - - - to come back broken beyond repair, or to not come back at all. She realized she didn't want to know the answer. Either one was too sad.

She jerked, her thoughts halted as she heard the sound of a screen door snap shut. She watched as the sun peeked over the horizon, a red-orange burst of light blinding her briefly. She blinked away the black spots across her eyes, and breathed. She reached over and switched off Eddie, and listened to the gratifying silence encompass her. Here, in her quiet little hometown of Macon, it was peaceful. The stillness in the air was most palpable in summer, when the heat threatened to fry them. When winters struck and the simple chill in the air let the few flakes of snow drift silently down, melting before they touched earth.

There was air in her lungs, and water beneath her hands and life in her veins. And none of it mattered because people were dying thousands upon thousands of miles away. She had thought she couldn't feel anymore worthless.

All she could do was return to her dishes and despise how mundane her life was. A woman, destined to spend her life at the beck and call of a husband, slaving away in a kitchen. She'd always cherish the gift of her daughter, but it did nothing to assuage the growing anxiety that she was just another number among studies. Another voice shouting into the crowd. Adrift at sea with no land in sight.

Insignificant.

Forgettable.

" Hey mama, " Sophia called. She pulled the clean dish from the sink, setting her despairing thoughts to the side, and drying her hands on the towel hanging from her waist. She turned toward the living room, smile gracing her features as her daughter skipped into the kitchen.

" You got a letter. " She held out the wrinkled envelope like it was foreign. There was a moment of confusion as she contemplated just who would write to her. She knew very few people who wrote letters anymore. The "telephone" had become increasingly popular of late, and regardless of how often she nagged Ed, he wouldn't buy her one. Claimed she didn't need that commercial bullshit.

" Who's it from baby? " Sophia looked over the envelope, brows knocking as she read the scrawl, her lips moving as she read the words to herself. She finally gave up and held the letter out once more, shoulders shrugging in indifference.

" Says P-t-e Dixon. I think Pete spelled his name wrong. " She merely stared at Sophia as realization dawned on her.

Two years, and one hundred and twenty letters later someone had finally written back.

She took the letter from Sophia, her daughter's puzzled look stopping her from clutching the letter to her chest and giggling with joy. She pursed her lips, tucking in the smile that threatened to split her face and shook her head.

" No sweetheart. Pte. means private. Like a soldier. " Sophia still had that look on her face, the one she donned when Carol started ranting about the delicate nature of her neighbor's and how easily they succumbed to frivolous gossip. Always willing and able to bring a friend down a peg or two all in the name of popularity. She thought she'd left that crap behind in high school, but they always managed to prove her wrong.

The look of disinterest as these details were irrelevant to Sophia.

" Someone must have written the wrong address. I'll just take it back to the post office tomorrow. "

Sophia shrugged again. " Well, it says your name and your address. "

She'd curse her daughters reasoning skills, except she always beamed with pride knowing how intelligent she was.

" I don't know sweetheart. I certainly didn't ask for a letter, so I'll just send it back. " Lie. But one she felt was necessary. Her husband would never condone her exchanging words with a man she didn't know or ever met for that matter.

" No need to bother your father. " She winked like this was going to be their little secret. And she was grateful that her daughter knew enough to keep it that way as Ed was no better toward Sophia than he was with her.

" You bet! " Sophia left the way she had come; skipping from the kitchen as if nothing had changed. But something was shifting in Carol, a feeling that rose so high she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to bring it down.

She stared down at the hurried scrawl across the parchment, stained and wrinkled from its travel. Skimmed her fingers over the black ink, smudged from God-knows-what. She sat down at the table, unable to tear her eyes away from the envelope, holding her breath.

This was what she had been waiting for. This letter. Words written to paper. A voice from the other side of the world.

Hope.

The smallest tendril of hope that as she reached across the void someone was there, waiting to take her hand.

Notes: So I did my best in keeping to an accurate timeline of when the US was in Vietnam, though I try to avoid being too fact-oriented. This is fanfic after all! There was involvement by the government, as far as I can interpret, from 54 to 64 or 65 when troops were finally sent it. Thus, the two year period of Carol sending letters.

Thank you for reading!