It lay on his bed, folded neatly on top of the bedsheets, the dull gray a sharp contrast from the blue of the bedclothes.

His uniform.

Samuel stood over it, almost afraid to touch it. The scene before him was too surreal to be happening. To his left and on the floor was his bag, filled with everything that he would ever hope to need: Food, extra clothes, a blanket, bandages, and a canteen that hung on a long string from the side. To his right was a yellow telegram. It was the telegram that he received not long ago that declared the start of the war. Samuel didn't know why he had kept it, but he held onto it nonetheless. In front of him was the uniform.

Deep breath. In and out.

The cloth felt rough on his skin as he pulled the jacket on.

This is new territory, but you can do this.

His fingers shook slightly as he fastened the buttons. One slipped.

It'll all be alright. No big deal.

Trousers now.

The plan is foolproof. We show the Union what we're made of, they back down, we go home, everyone's happy.

The boots were brand new. He would have to break them in before they could hope to become even remotely comfortable.

You're a nation, act like one. War happens, and this is your war. Now is your chance to make a mark on history.

The hat didn't feel quite right when he tried it on, so he stuffed it into his bag somewhere between a blanket and some bullets.

History remembers the victor.

His hair was still messy, so he combed it back with his fingers. He really should have gotten it cut before today, but too late now.

Make it impossible for history to forget the Confederate States of America.

Out of the corner of his eye, Samuel caught a reflection of himself in the mirror across the room. A man stood in the reflection, clothed in gray, with straw-colored hair falling into his face. A pool of green for eyes, the shadow of a beard on his chin and cheeks. The boy that he once was was long dead. The man he was now had slain him. This man was ready and willing to do anything for his people. He would fight. He would kill. He would bleed. He would wage a war that the world would remember for centuries to come.

Make it impossible for history to forget the name Samuel Lee Jones.

A week earlier, Alfred sat on the floor in a dark corner of his room with his knees drawn up to his chest. His desk was on the other side under an open window. The golden light of the setting sun streamed in and over the piles of battle plans, troop movements, and empty bottles of whiskey. He reeked of whiskey, vomit, and sweat.

He had cordoned himself off in this room for two days, doing nothing but poring over war documents, getting himself as drunk as he could, and trying to convince himself that he was not about to go to war with his own people.

He drank.

He wept.

He drank some more.

Now, with his liquor supply utterly spent and all of his tears dried up, he sat alone with his thoughts in the dark. His fingers played absentmindedly with the mouth of a bottle that sat between his bare feet. He stared forward at nothing, yet he could see everything that had led to this point. The growing rift between North and South. The compromises-shortcuts-that he had allowed to happen in order to attempt to maintain a fragile state of peace. Bleeding Kansas, slave hunts that were dragged into the North, broken ties between his people. He hadn't seen the signs that were screaming at him until it was too late to stem the tide of war.

He hated himself for it.

A knock sounded at the door. Alfred spat a nasty curse at the person on the other side of the door, but they simply turned a key and pushed through the door. It was Lincoln. He took one look at the state of the room and Alfred before shaking his head.

"Dear God Alfred, what have you done?"

Alfred glared at the President. His words were slurred together into a stream of nearly indiscernible words.

"Get the frick frack paddy whack out of my room, Mr. President man."

Lincoln raised an eyebrow and tried to smother something that resembled a giggle. "Excuse me?"

Alfred's voice suddenly swelled to a level that startled Lincoln, "I said, get out of my room!" The bottle at his feet was thrown at the wall, nearly missing the President's head. The glass shattered all over the floor. Slivers of glass slid across the wood and sparkled in the light.

Lincoln paused and thought for a moment before he attempted to reenter the room. His leather shoes crunched over the glass. "Alfred, let me get you cleaned up. You're of no use to anyone when you're drunk out of your mind."

"Whatever, stupid head," Alfred mumbled. Lincoln rolled his eyes and walked up to Alfred's crumpled form. "Go away, you dumb idiot!" He tried to slap Lincoln away unsuccessfully as Lincoln reached down, grasped him under his arms, and pulled him up to his feet. Alfred's legs gave out, and Lincoln held him up against his body. "Alfred, please, pull yourself together!"

"Hey, what's going…" Alfred's voice drifted off, and it sounded distracted.

"Alfred… Please tell me you're-"

What was left in Alfred's stomach ended up on Lincoln's vest and shirt, and dripped onto his shoes. God help me not kill him right now, Lincoln thought to himself. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before he held Alfred up so that they were looking into each other's faces.

"Alfred, you are disgusting. Can you please pull yourself together for five minutes so I can at least get the… the vomit off of you?"

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, then looked down at his bare chest that was covered in his sick. "Eww."

"Yes, 'eww'. Now let's get you cleaned up. I'll have someone make a pot of coffee for you." Lincoln started to haul Alfred to the nearest bathroom. He called out to someone to fetch a set of clean clothes.

"Mr. President man," Alfred mumbled.

"What is it, Alfred?"

Alfred rolled his head to one side to get a better look at Lincoln. His eyes were glazed over and empty. "Is this my fault?"

Lincoln tightened his grip on Alfred's body and sighed before he whispered, "No son, no it's not."

Alfred stumbled into one of the spare White House bedrooms that Lincoln had taken him to. He tried to lean against a table near the door, but knocked a lamp over by accident. He also completely missed the table and ended up sprawled on the floor.

"Who moved that…?" Alfred's slurred words to no one went unanswered.

Determined to make it to the nearby bed, Alfred used the table to attempt to pull himself to his feet, but it took multiple tries to get himself on his unsteady feet. That's when it caught his eye.

A stationery set, pen, and inkwell.

Alfred didn't think. He only saw an opportunity, so he took it.

Fingers wrapped around the pen and with paper spread out before him, he scratched out a letter that he would never have written if he was sober.

At the top of the paper in nearly illegible handwriting, he addressed the letter to Samuel L. Jones.

He then poured out his poor, drunken, broken and bleeding heart onto the page.

You know, I don't even know why we're doing this. There's no point to anything. I honestly can't understand why the hole whole country is gonna kill each other over nothing. You know, this whole deal makes me think of when I got my indapandance indipendant interdepindence indapendance screw it from engwund Englind engaland England, and I swear, I was so mad and I didn't want to even look at him for months-no, years-after the whole shebang. Hah shebang. That's fun to say. Shebang. Shebang. Shebang. Everyone wants me to hate you but I just can't do it, I mean, what's so bad about you, huh? What'd you do, just try and do what I did. That's all. I don't blame you, honestly. You know something funny? I pooked puked on the President. Yeah, that was pretty funny. I've always wanted to do something funny like that. No one lets me do funny things. I'm a funny person, I swear. I wish you knew how funny I was. Maybe I'll buy you a drink. I need a drinking boody booty buddy. You know what, screw it, let's just get drunk. I'd like that. Not like I'm drunk right now or anything. I'm totally sober. Seriously. Ask anybody. Do you like songs? I do do haha do do. You know, when I was a kid, Arthur used to sing me this song when I couldn't sleep, which was all the time. Man, I used to drive Arthur crazy. Especially when Mattie was over. I told him that it was stupid, like him and those callipitter caterpillar eyebrows of his, but I actually liked it, you know? Makes me all noostalgic nastologic nostalgic and warm and fuzzy inside. Like whiskey. Whiskey is good. Lincoln took all my whiskey away. He's a idiot stupid head. And his kids are annoying. And his wife makes me eat her disgusting pie. I hate her pie. It tastes like dirt. And she holds these weird seeances sayances seances. She seriously thinks she can talk to the dead. They are pretty funny to watch though. Don't tell anyone I said that. One time Mattie was over and he broke a vase and she thought it was the ghost. I laughed so hard. I think Mattie still feels bad about it. We fixed it though, but it was a bad glue job. Mattie can't fix things to save his life. Don't tell him I said that either.

Sammy, buddy, I hate this whole deal. Oh crap I spilt the bottle. Lincoln poo poo head is gonna be mad. This is his desk. I got kicked out of my room. I know you do too. It's not too late to call it all off. I mean, if you even want to. I want you to come home. Please. It's lonely here. I'm always by myself. I'm scared. I'd like for you to come and bring everyone back. No one needs to die. I want you to stop it and come home.

Alfred

Samuel opened the door of his room, his bag slung over his back. The leather strap dug into his shoulder, and he pushed it up further onto his back. He slipped through the door and drew it shut behind him, careful of the creaking of the rusting hinges. He started down the hallway toward the front door, but found himself drawn to look into a room on his right. He cracked the door open only an inch, and he peered inside. The girl he had taken home last night was still fast asleep. Try as he might, he couldn't manage to recall her name. He did remember that they had both been quite drunk last night, well, she had been. He had found that he possessed quite the ability to hold his liquor.

The girl was nestled under a sheet, her blonde hair spread out over the pillow in a halo of curls. She had the faintest shadow of a smile on her sleeping face. Samuel only watched her for a second more before deciding to sneak into the room. A pen and paper were sitting on the bedside table, and he jotted down a note for the girl to read when she woke up.

Use the back door. Try to be quiet.

S.L.J

He blew on the ink to dry it before he folded the note and placed it gingerly on the sheet by the girl's slender hand, which hung over the side of the bed.

Samuel left the room without another word.

He walked down the hall and into the parlor, where a pile of letters were stacked untidily on a small table. Samuel picked up the stack and sifted through them, looking for anything that would interest him. A crumpled up and stained envelope caught his eye. It was addressed to him in sloppy, blotchy writing. Brow furrowed, he set the other letters down and slit the strange envelope open. From inside, he drew out Alfred's letter. It was folded and creased every which way, and it felt like something had spilled on it and then dried. He put the paper under his nose and sniffed. Whiskey. Samuel unfolded the paper carefully and began to read. His eyebrows shot up instantly at everything that was crossed out, misspelled, and at the dried pools of ink. He read through slowly, taking great care in an attempt to follow what exactly Alfred was trying to say. When he reached the bottom of the page, strange drops blurred the ink on the paper. He very nearly thought that they could be teardrops, but he quickly tossed out the idea.

When he finished, Samuel stared at the letter. He didn't do anything for a moment, he just thought. Finally, he sighed and shook his head. Samuel folded the letter back up, slipped it back into the envelope, and strode over to the kitchen. The stove was immediately to his right. He leaned over, opened the door to where the wood burned hot in the belly of the iron stove. He paused and looked at the envelope. The yellow of the paper blended with the orange of the glowing flames. The black letters stood out, dark as the night. He clenched his jaw. Heat bathed his face. Beads of sweat started to collect on his lip. His hands trembled ever so slightly.

A flick of his wrist. The envelope caught flame the second it touched the red embers. It was engulfed in flickering yellow. The letter curled, scorched, disintegrated into ash. Pieces rose up into the chimney of the stove. Within five seconds, it was as if the letter had never existed at all.

Samuel straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and closed the door of the stove. He strode out of the house as quickly as he could. He had somewhere he had to be. He had a war to wage.

I have no time for the ravings of a drunken, childish idiot.

Let us know what you think by leaving us a review! Thanks so much for reading, and don't forget to check out the blog! Link is in my profile. Feel free to ask us questions, we won't bite.

And we tried to actually strike through the misspelled words and extra thoughts in Alfred's letter, but it wasn't going to work, so just roll with it and use your imagination.

Much love,

Harley and Amanda