Author's Note: Okay, this is nearly a Wrencer fanfiction (like literally switch all the times I referred to the soldier as "Toby" and it would be Wren), but I really had to do this because it mentions stuff in the lyrics about an American and...I don't really have to explain my choices; I can do what I want, guys!
Wait, now as I reread it, you could probably even pretend this is Wren/Spencer because I don't even think I mentioned Toby. Oh, whatever.
Day Two-Hundred Nineteen: Soulstice by Rachael Sage
Gunfire was a common occurrence in their section on the Western Front. Still, it rattled the young nurse—still only nineteen and entirely new to the scenery of war—as she tended to the wounds of the young soldiers, many of whom were just as young as she was.
One day, one soldier—only twenty—entered the hospital due to a minor gunshot wound, or ballistic trauma. It was venial compared to some of the other things the men had: gangrene, shrapnel wounds, and typhoid. He was rather quiet, unlike some of the other soldiers in their care; they were rowdy and often broke things around the hospital ward.
One night, she was on night duty. Many of the other men were sleeping or too inebriated to be coherent or even aware of their surroundings. The nurse went to check in on the soldier she had been particularly fascinated by. She was going to change his bandages. She often found it easier to do this when the men were either sleeping or too hopped up on painkillers to resist. She moved quickly, but it appeared as though he was still awake. She hadn't even noted that his eyes were opened slightly and he was staring out of the window at the pretty lake outside the hospital. During the daytime, there were black and white swans that liked to gather by the lake. She was glad that during such dire times, at least animals could find some serenity.
"Miss?" She was startled to hear him speak; he had never spoken to anyone else in the room, save perhaps a murmur or two. "When do you think this will be over?" He had a slight British accent—was it Welsh or English? She couldn't be certain—that just brushed over his words.
"The war?" He nodded in response. "I don't know. Soon…I hope."
"You're far from home, aren't you? Is this your first time out of the States?" Her mouth hung open slightly, not exactly sure at what to say to that. "I can tell from your accent."
"Yes, then. Is this your first time from home, too?"
"I've been to France before. I always wanted to go back, but…not for this reason."
She nodded sadly. She could say the same.
"It's a hard thing, watching people that you knew die right in front of you. It's hard thinking that the person you're firing at is the same person you might be good friends with…but because you're from different countries, you're sworn enemies."
She'd never thought of it like that. Suddenly, his words captivated her. It was like he had a hold on her. She sat in the chair beside him. Although she knew there were many patients she knew she had to attend to, she thought she could stay there for a moment more.
"How much longer do you think I'll be here?" he inquired.
"Not long, probably…" Her words were tremulous because she knew the more time he spent out in the trenches, the higher his chances of mortality were.
He had a slight smile. "Is this what everyone says when they say that Americans are terse with their words?" he inquired.
She didn't flinch and took it more lightheartedly. "Who said I was terse with my words? I just haven't had anyone to share my eloquence with. Your comrades have been too hopped up on morphine for me to carry an articulate, stimulating conversation with them," she assured him with a small smile. He looked impressed with her. Before he could offer a comment, she got up to go tend to some other patients. He didn't flinch, but when the American nurse looked over her shoulder, she caught a glimmer of a smile in his eyes.
A couple weeks later, long after that soldier was discharged—he'd been released two days later—, there was a sudden influx of patients. It seemed as though there was a sudden outbreak of trench fever and all the beds were full. It seemed as though the war was never going to end.
She was surprised to see that the very soldier who'd been discharged weeks ago. She hadn't realized it, but she missed his presence. It was almost as though he had stuck around in her mind.
"Back again?" she asked as she prepared the thermometer to take his temperature.
"I sort of missed seeing you and having those thought-provoking conversations," he replied.
"You missed an American?" she inquired, feigning surprise.
"I never thought I'd say it, but yes, I missed an American," he admitted.
She smiled as she put the thermometer in his mouth. "What are you here for today?"
"Typhoid."
She frowned before putting her palm on his forehead. He was burning hot. If she had to guess, his temperature was probably around 104o Fahrenheit, or, according to her European coworkers, 40o Celsius. She knew he must've been miserable with such a high fever. "Did any of the nurses offer you water or anything?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yes, but I was waiting for you."
She looked at him with an unamused expression. "You could die," she chastised as she poured him water.
"I'm going to die anyway," he responded cynically as he took a sip of the water he poured her. "This war is going to kill me, just like everyone else, in one way or another. You can't say you haven't felt it." He stared at the cup, like he was refusing to drink any more water. "Even just a few weeks ago, I could've sworn you looked livelier. Now, you just look like a moving statue."
She stiffened at that description.
"You'll probably live through the war, but will you really be alive? You're never going to find peace back home, seeing all the things you've seen, even though you know Europe is a whole giant ocean away from your home in…New York? Philadelphia? Every time you look at the sea, you're going to think of this lake and how blue it was while blood ran red all throughout the trenches, even spilling into the water. You're going to think of the uncountable number of bodies that are probably somewhere at the bottom of the ocean," he said. It sounded like a dare. He finished the cup of water.
"Well, it wasn't what I was thinking of, exactly, but I think you painted a picture that'll stay with me for a while," she responded as she poured him more water. Her voice cracked, not with emotion, but with disgust at the gory picture he'd painted. Why had she become a nurse again? She'd never met someone who could make her feel that way in a few sentences.
She began to feel faint and sat for a moment. Then, as she began to catch her breath and steady herself, she felt inferior. She was supposed to be helping these men, but she was going to be the one that needed medical assistance.
"Sorry for that, but I can't help but be pragmatic about it," he assured her as he drank the rest of the water.
About a week and a half later, several men had died from their typhus. Many had been transferred to other parts of the hospital—such as the death ward, or they had been operated on and were moved to other rooms after the operations—but the one soldier stayed and looked out the window. He always looked so bleak.
"I think it might be over soon," she assured him as she poured him more water.
"I think you're being falsely optimistic." She sighed in defeat. Although most patients with typhoid got better after two or three weeks—and he had probably had it for approximately a week before being brought to the hospital—he didn't seem to be improving at all. He looked just as weak as he had when he arrived. She wondered if it was perhaps the war taking its toll on him.
"I'm trying to help."
"Lying isn't any help."
"Well, maybe it's hope."
"What hope do we have left? That Germany will just surrender?" He scoffed. "That we'll surrender?" That received a bitter laugh. "Moreover, I'd rather die than have to live at the mercy of those German brutes."
"Weren't you the one who said—"
"Not the people," he said, in a tone that reflected he was either agitated or he couldn't believe just how asinine an answer that was. "The government. The German government is nothing but trouble," he assured her.
She looked at him in worry before putting her hand on his forehead again. He was burning.
"I think you should try to get some sleep," she assured him as she gave him more water.
He sighed before laying back in the bed. "I'm going to miss these conversations, you know," he murmured in a half-delirious state. She looked in confusion. "You're the only nurse who's ever really listened without asking if I needed to go to the psychiatric ward."
"I don't think you're crazy. I think you're smart." He opened his eyes and smiled at her. Finally, there was more life in his eyes. "I like having you here. Now can you call it a night and get some rest?" she inquired.
"I don't need—"
"You do if the typhoid is ever going to go away," she assured him as she instructed him to lay wholeheartedly with the intent to sleep.
He gave her another sigh before lying down and trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. When he had finally settled, she decided to kiss him gingerly on the forehead. He did not respond, so she assumed he was alright with it.
He left the hospital on October 23rd, 1918. The fighting in the trenches stopped on November 11th, 1918.
She was going back to America at the end of the month after helping treat some more veterans from the war. She was rather excited to leave. Still, she thought of the soldier.
He had somehow managed to procure a pencil nub and a small scrap of paper before his departure. On it, he wrote his name and address back in London, where he lived. She hoped that he hadn't died in those fifteen or so days he had been in the trenches.
She wondered how she could feel this way about someone else. She couldn't say it was love—she had hardly known his name before seeing this piece of paper—but it felt like more than just friendship or acquaintanceship.
But there were days she even disliked herself for feeling so resentful about her decision to be a nurse during the war. How selfish was that? There were people suffering and dying in war and she was too selfish to even want to help them. Still, she found herself regretting her decision. She found it hard not to, knowing she could never un-see any of the things she had seen.
When she arrived home to New York—he had been right the first time—she wrote a letter to him and prayed that she got an answer. She knew maintaining contact with this stranger seemed both counterproductive and like a ridiculous idea, but she wanted to try.
She thought about how the letter she spent time obsessing over was crossing over the blood-infested waters of the Atlantic Ocean to someone she had met because of the bloodshed. She just wanted a reply. She wished he'd never brought up all the blood in that body of water. It felt as though now she was trapped in the war, still. She knew there was no way she'd be able to find a turning point; she'd never escape the war.
She knew this all as she opened a piece of mail from England excitedly one day in the middle of the cold New York winter.
Sarah: I don't appreciate it very much when you tell me to stfu (btw I read it as stih-fu because I can). Oh, wait, what's coming? Is there a new type of hot chocolate I don't know about? What? Oh, wait. I know. Okay, so I have SAD so I just think of the worst possible scenario so I got a little sick like three days ago and I was like "OMG WHAT IF IT IS EBOLA" like that genuinely went through my mind. Okay, thanks, but what did you REALLY think of it?
Guest: Thank you! I hope for 1k reviews! Just like 38 more (*crossing my fingers* since I only have like 11 left and I've been averaging only about 2 per one-shot).
SO I don't know if I've shared this with you guys, but I am a fan of certain eras in history (such as WWI, WWII, and the Interwar Period, especially) so this is like a nerdy favorite of mine. In case you couldn't tell, this takes place around 1918 in France in a hospital near the trenches. Spencer is a nurse and Toby is a soldier. Nerdy favorite. Enthuse me, please.
Tomorrow will be Damn You by Lana Del Rey. I think this one came out slightly better than the last few Lana/Marina ones I've done (except for BTD; I actually liked that one). -Kayson
P.S.: I don't mention them enough but extra big thank you to Sarah and my really cool guest because they're just so cool about reading it and everything. :)