Warnings for those that may be sensitive to reading about bodily fluids (aka vomiting).
Also owning that fact that I'm not a WWII expert, nor am I nurse - so please excuse any historical/medical inaccuracies (But please feel free to let me know about them!)
I wrote this yesterday, and changed the tense today - so the usual mistakes, things that sound a little funky, and a title/description I'm not sold on (?may change, may not - also feel free to make suggestions).
Anyway - I'm in my WWII Era - Enjoy!
Rage Against Fate: Chapter One.
Wounded
He could feel the ground shaking beneath him. He could hear the rumble of machinery close by, some distant yells and screams. He could only see blurs of gray and patches of black, and even then, only intermittently.
His mind was taking it all in so slowly. He had no idea what was going on. He had no idea where he was. He felt like he was spinning, and the world was spinning around him - and that was it. The rest of him was numb.
Was he dead? Is this what death felt like? Numb, spinning, gray, nothingness?
"WEST!"
The piercing scream was as if someone had just pulled him out of the frigid sea and he was gasping for air.
He felt the air enter and expand his lungs. The overwhelming shouting, machinery noise, and gunshots were piercing his ears. His vision was still blurry, but could make out the shifting and moving of shapes.
His body was suddenly yanked violently, and there was the pain. Excruciating, burning, searing, knife stabbing pain. His mouth opened, but he wasn't sure if sound escaped or not. All he could think of was pain. He had never in his entire life known this much pain. If his body would follow his commands, he would be writhing in absolute agony. So. Much. Pain.
Maybe this was death - an eternal, never ending, insane onslaught of unbearable pain.
"GET ME THE GODDAMN SULFA!"
His body violently yanked again, and his mouth parted again, but this time he could hear himself. Guttural groans escaped him, one after the other. So much pain. Why wouldn't it just stop? It felt like he was being ripped apart from the outside, over and over.
Grey skies finally graced his vision, followed by a shaved head with blue eyes.
"Hang in there, Wally," the voice was pleading.
He felt his body yanked again, feeling something cold squish against his cheek. The pain intensified, and his vision was already back to blurred grays. It then felt like electricity was running through his body, frying him from the inside out. He felt like he was convulsing. He could hear himself screaming.
The electricity dulled to an intense sting, and continued to dull until he was no longer conscious.
888
He struggled to open his eyes. Why did he feel so tired? So incredibly drained, like it took all his effort just to even think.
He could hear some light noise, some muffled conversations, some glass bottles rattling and the light thrashing of metal crashing together. Where was he?
He just had to open his eyes, that's it. But he just couldn't. Why couldn't he open them? Why wouldn't his body obey him? He could barely feel his body. It just felt.. heavy, like he was, he was made of lead. Any attempts to wiggle a finger or toe were fruitless. Maybe now he was dead?
And as if his body finally got the message, his eyes opened.
But it's not what he expected. His vision was still blurry. However, it wasn't gray. It was ridiculously white, an absolutely blinding white. He felt like he was being blinded. He closed his eyes, and the darkness returned.
"Wallace?" The voice was female, unfamiliar. That's all he could make out.
He attempted to open his eyes, and he was met with the same brilliant white. He tolerated it this time. Maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe he was blind.
"Wallace?" The female voice called again. Did she have an accent? He didn't know.
He saw some dark blurs appear slowly. He took in a deep breath, sighing it out in relief. More colors started to appear. Definitely not dead, and maybe not blind.
"Wallace, can you hear me?"
He wanted to nod in response, he wanted to speak, he wanted to scream out to her, anything to get her attention - but his brain couldn't quite make it happen. It was too focused on trying to correct these blurs in his vision.
He could feel a light touch on his shoulder.
His vision was now fully coloured, and blurs started to correct themselves. He could start to make out things. The clock on the wall. The metal bed frame at the end of his bed. The beautiful face of a woman with fair blonde hair at his bedside. Her hair was pulled back, and there was a strange white hat sitting perfectly on top of her head.
The recognition seemed to flash across his face, as the female face was softly smiling at him.
His brain suddenly connected movement to his hand, and without thinking, it reached for her face.
She grabbed his hand with her two slender ones. "Wallace, it's okay, you're safe." The accent is American. God, his mind was so foggy, and his body was so flaccid. It was like he was an infant, learning basic motor skills for the first time.
"Wallace," she began, "you're in a hospital in France." That explained the white cap. It was like the cogs in his brain were beginning to work.
"Call," he started, his voice hoarse, it sounded like he had shouted for hours the night before. It surprised even himself. She stroked his hand. He continued, "call me, Wally."
"Alright, Wally," she spoke softly, her head tilting slightly to the left. "When's your birthday, Wally?"
He thought for a moment. His birthday? When was his birthday?
"November 11th," he croaked out. He winced at the continued harsh sound of his voice.
She nodded. "Do you remember what happened, Wally?"
His eyes lost focus for a moment, trying to remember. He remembered the awful meat stew one of his colleagues made the night before. The night before what? He remembered washing his face the next morning with cold water. The morning before what? He remembered cleaning out his gun multiple times in preparation. His brow furrowed in deep concentration. What was he cleaning his gun for? His eyes widened. For the battle. For war.
"The field," he whispered, as if his mind was still replaying the memory.
The young blonde's eyebrows furrowed together sympathetically. "Some shrapnel from a shell hit you," her tone is solemn.
He looked lost. His eyes finally met hers. "Where?"
Now her frown turns confused. "Your back?" she paused, looking slightly bewildered for a moment, "Are you not in pain?"
At that exact moment, it was as if a switch had suddenly turned on. He could feel the skin on his back burning, like it was on fire. His face twisted and contorted into a pained scowl.
He remembered that intense pain, his whole body felt like it was on fire, scorching him from the outside in - the electricity pulsing through his body. It felt like his flesh was still burning.
Her hand squeezed his forearm for a moment. "I shouldn't have said anything," she was already on her feet, "let me get you something for that."
He blinked, and she was gone. The pain seared up and down his back. It felt like something was burning a hole into his back, ensuring it was being done at the slowest possible pace. Strangely, he also felt hungry, so incredibly ravenous that he could eat absolutely anything. How long had he been unconscious for, to feel this starved? He felt absolutely voracious, like anything he would be given would still leave him insatiable. No wonder he was so tired.
He looked down to the white cotton blanket covering his body. He was propped slightly onto his left side, carefully positioned with multiple pillows. His pale arms were clean, an IV precariously placed into a vein in his left arm.
His back continued to burn, how he imagined a ridiculously big cigarette being stubbed out on your skin would feel, and continued to burn for many hours after. He looked up, and could see a row of beds opposite him, pressed up against a wall, all of them full of men. Some of them were sitting over the edge of their beds, some of them smoking, some of them barely even looked alive.
He was thankfully neighbourless to his right, a mere meter from the wall that ended the ward. To his left, a man whose left leg was in some kind of traction device, and fast asleep.
The scalding sensation continued across his back, while his stomach continued to scream for food as he waited for the nurse to return.
His mind came back to his body. She hadn't said anything else about any other injuries. Despite the burn in his back, the rest of him felt normal. He wiggled his toes - still intact. He pumped his ankles up and down, and straightened his knees - so far so good. He flexed and extended his hips, and decided he should probably not do that again today. The burn in his back intensified.
He wiggled his fingers, and circled his wrists - all still working. He bent and straightened his right elbow, and decided he should avoid moving the left arm, in case he accidentally ruined the already precariously placed IV line. He moved his right shoulder and his back pulled, and the burn intensified even further. He decided he definitely wouldn't be moving much for the rest of today.
The blonde was back in view, carrying a syringe in one hand and a small vial, of what he assumed was morphine, in the other. She went to his back, out of his line of sight, and he could feel her move the pillows and his cotton gown around.
"How long was I out for?" He croaked again.
There was a short silence, he presumed she was measuring the morphine.
"About four days."
His eyes widened. "Four days?" His voice was incredulous.
"Stay still," she commanded.
He could feel the needle go into his uncovered bicep. It was sharp momentarily, and then, it was gone.
She was back in his vision, carefully placing the used syringe into the rubbish can at his bedside. She placed the vial, with both her hands, in a pocket in her white apron.
He looked at her desperately. "But," he started, his voice small. "What happened?"
Her face melted into pity, as she bent down to him. "I don't know Wally," she paused, looking directly at him. "You'll have to ask your friend, First Lieutenant Grayson."
Finally something familiar! He had completely forgotten about the small, specialised company he fought with. He had completely forgotten about his best friend. How could he have forgotten them? Were they all okay? Were they all alive?
"He's alive?" He whispered.
She smiled again, but this time it was different. "Very much so," she paused, looking slightly coy for a moment, "he seems like a fine First Lieutenant."
He would've rolled his eyes if he weren't so relieved that his friend wasn't dead. Classic Grayson, managing to flirt with every female present, even in a hospital, even in a war zone.
"Is there anything else, Wally?" She asked quietly, before looking back to the other patients lined across the wall opposite him.
He swallowed. He had to ask. The pain he couldn't do much about, but the hunger? He was absolutely famished. "Could I possibly.. be able to have some food?" he asked softly.
She smiled that warm smile. "Of course," her tone even warmer, "I'll grab you a few things, dinner will be around soon too."
She raised herself back to her full height, and before she could turn he quickly interjected, "Sorry, Miss," his eyes apologetic, "I forgot to ask your name."
She smiled again, and he melted. "Bette."
888
Bette returned shortly after dinner to pick up his food tray. She looked at the completely empty tray, except for the rubbish from the packaging of the food. "Wow," her eyes were wide and her eyebrows raised. "You really were hungry."
He grinned at her. "Thank you," he said politely. "I already feel so much better."
He was telling the truth. Lining his stomach with food had relieved that ravenous feeling. The morphine was starting to kick in - he could still feel the burn, but it was less intense, and more stinging now.
"Alright, Wally," she carried the tray on her hip, whilst her free hand straightened up her nurse's cap, "I have to go, your nurse should be back in a moment."
He looks discombobulated. "You're not my nurse?"
"Oh Wally, your nurse is on a break."
888
"Wallace?" It's another female voice, a little deeper and slightly raspier than Bette's.
This time it takes him less than a second to open his eyes. He hadn't realised he dozed off. His stomach swirled a little, making him feel slightly nauseous. He hadn't eaten in five days, so he assumed that it was expected to feel a little off after his first meal.
His thoughts were soon taken by the beautifully tanned, olive skinned hands in front of him, delicately fiddling with the IV line in his arm.
"Wallace?" the female called again.
He was about to look up. "Wall-" he began, but cut himself with a soft groan. His stomach definitely didn't feel right.
"Are you alright?"
He looked up and stopped. He just stared at her. Her eyes, a deep shade of brown, her hair a bright shade of blonde. Her face -
Then, uncontrollably, his stomach lurched, instinctively, his mouth opened and the food he ate less than an hour ago was already coming out the way it came in - and all over the blonde nurses stockings and shoes.
"Bette!" He could hear the nurse call.
His body violently jerked again, and the nurses' reflexes were lighting quick this time, even with soiled stockings and shoes, and bodily fluids on her almost bare legs. She quickly grabbed the rubbish bin within her reach and brought it right into the target zone.
The redhead attempted to grip the sides of the bin as he uncontrollably brought up more liquid, but this time not on the nurse. However, the sudden movement loosened the IV in his left arm and it was forcibly yanked out. Now he was not only vomiting into a trash can, but also blood was dripping down his left arm. The burning intensified in his back again, the retching stretching his wounds more than he was comfortable with.
A gauze was slapped and held down over his recently evacuated IV site.
"Artemis?" It's Bette.
Artemis? Was that her name?
"Towels please, emesis bag and gauze."
He tried to look up, but he retched again into the trash can. The waves continued to come, and his stomach continued to empty the wrong way. He could feel the sweat beading at his browline, and the wetness pooling around his armpits. His breath is ragged, almost gasping.
He didn't dare look up this time. Afraid that he might accidentally get her face too, but also afraid of the expression she's most likely got on her face.
He could feel the waves of nausea subsiding, but the burning in his back increased. He took in a large breath, and let an extended exhale escape him. He could feel the beads of sweat now dripping down his temples. He settled for a moment, and he could feel his stomach settle too.
He could taste the bile in his mouth. He hated to spit in front of women, but he couldn't help it. The taste in his mouth was rancid. He spat, and then spat a second time, for good measure.
He finally looked up, and it's not what he expected.
There was a small, empathetic, smile on her full lips. "Feel better?"
He looked at her meekly, still panting slightly, before nodding once. She finally set the trash can down on the floor, carefully avoiding the mess that was already on the ground. Through the rancid taste and smell, he could make out a new fragrance, something earthy, maybe mixed with vanilla?
Bette was back with some towels layered in her arms. She passed a few to Artemis, who grabbed them with her free hand. Bette dropped the rest of the towels on the ground beside Artemis, and stepped on them. She made her way around behind Artemis, mopping up the mess on the floor with her towel covered shoes like an ice skater, all while unraveling some tape within her hands.
Artemis threw one of the towels at the foot of the bed. Her free hand changed the grip of the towel and gently wiped the red headed man's forehead and then chin. He could feel Bette placing tape over the gauze on his left arm - but he doesn't look.
His eyes were on Artemis, whose face was so close to his. He felt like there was not enough time to take in her whole face. Her right hand gently gripped his jaw, as her left hand wiped around his mouth. His eyes stayed on hers, and he couldn't pull himself away. Her hand lingered on his jaw for a fraction too long.
She finally broke contact, her hand and eyes. "I'll be back in a moment," and he wasn't sure if she said that to him or Bette. But both he and Bette nodded anyway.
He watched as she wiped both her legs with the towel in her hands, and then her shoes. She tiptoed away and vanished from view.
He swallowed, and instantly winced at the lingering taste in the back of his throat. "I'm so sorry, Bette," he finally said, his voice even huskier than before.
Bette looked up at him with an unbothered expression, as a couple of strands of her hair fell into her face. "It's fine," she stated with an unfazed shrug, "we've seen much worse."
Her elbow attempted to swipe the hair from her face, but it was unsuccessful. "Are you okay?"
He nodded. "I just didn't mean to make a mess on that nurse," his voice was soft, regretful. "I didn't even apologise."
"Oh, Artemis?" Bette looked even more unbothered as she picked up the soiled towels used to clean up his mess. "She's a seasoned Nurse, Wally," she looked once at the towels, and turned quickly.
He watched as she dumped the towels in a linen bin across the room. She was already back at his bedside in less a second, eyeing his reddening IV site that had just been dressed with gauze.
"But it was all over her legs and shoes," he tried to continue, his tone still concerned.
Her hand touched his shoulder and she gave him a gentle rub on his shoulder. "Trust me, Wally," her fingers then gave him a gentle squeeze. "That's the least of her worries."
888
He jerked himself awake. He sucked in a deep breath. Both his hands reached out to grip the sides of the bed.
There's a flash, so bright that he's blinded. For how long he's not sure. Something rams him in the throat, and he feels like he's choking. His hands go for his neck, in some sort of attempt to protect his airway from further attacks. He stumbles back, and he's airborne. He still can't see. His back thuds against the ground. His hands are still going for his neck. He can hear a struggle to his right. He's gasping desperately to get air into his lungs. The white fades to grey, just in time to see a silver bayonet plunge deep into the chest of the man next to him.
"Wally?" a female voice whispered.
He blinked. It was dark, but the room was dimly illuminated by a light a few beds down on his left. He looked up, and he was face to face with Artemis. That face he couldn't seem to look at long enough.
He was panting, sweaty, his heart racing in his chest. His hands were still desperately gripping the sheets on his mattress. He still felt like he was choking. Her eyes darted from his hands, to his chest and back to his eyes. She looked slightly tense.
His eyes bore into hers. The look on her face was then somber. "Are you alright?"
He was silent for a moment, an attempt at calming himself. He looked away. He was okay. He wasn't in battle. He was safe. He continued to repeat that he was okay, that he wasn't in battle and that he was safe until it sunk in. Her eyes didn't break from his for even a second.
He finally took a deep breath and then nodded. His hands finally released the sheets.
She looked at him intensely. "Nightmare?"
This time he stayed silent and didn't nod.
His back was burning again, even worse than before. He broke eye contact with her. He shifted slightly in the bed, and his face instantly gave him away, by the way his face spasmed into a twisted grimace.
"I'll be right back," she whispered, before turning quickly.
He took in another deep breath, and then another, and then another - until he could feel his heartbeat returning to normal. The burn continued, and the hunger was back - it was all never ending.
She returns with that familiar syringe and small glass vial. The silence continued as she moved around the bed to where he couldn't see. There's a few coughs that echo from the other side of the ward, a snore and moan intermittently fill the void between the coughs. He sucked in a breath, and he could smell that familiar scent - earthy, and maybe slightly musky?
"Sharp scratch," she whispered, and he could feel the needle pierce his skin. As before, a moment later, and it was gone.
She was back in his line of vision, her face slightly obscured by shadow. She did as Bette did before, discarding the syringe into the trash and the morphine into her white nurse's apron.
"Thank you," he said softly.
"Ah," she whispered with a slight teasing smile, "he speaks."
He smiled a little. "I'm sorry about before."
She shook her head a little. "No need to apologise," she started, as she bent to his level. "Are you feeling better?"
"Much," he stated simply.
He suddenly noticed the new IV in his left arm, appearing more secure than the previous one. He frowned, he didn't remember that being inserted.
She noticed his gaze on the IV. "It was reinserted before," she said, before her expression turned amused, "but you were in a sleep of the dead." He looked back up at her. "We managed to clean you up, change your gown, your sheets and put that in without waking you up."
His eyes study her face. Finally, for the first time since meeting her earlier this afternoon, he can really look at her without too much interference. Her tanned olive skin, her deep brown eyes, her full lips - all so incredibly unlike anyone he had ever seen before.
He could see his stare was making her slightly uncomfortable by the way she bit her lower lip and averted her own gaze.
He swallowed, and then coughed, before averting his own eyes. "Thank you," he whispered.
She nodded with a smile, and before they could be thrust into another silence, she asked, "would you like to rinse your mouth?"
He just looked at her, dumbfounded, not comprehending what she meant.
She scoffed in amusement. "The stunning display after dinner before?"
He almost looked as if shrunk in his bed in shameful embarrassment. She let out a light subdued raspy chuckle. He was still too off kilter to be joking about his newfound regurgitating skills so soon. He didn't know how she had this kind of energy and wit at this time of night.
Her chuckle faded into a smile. "You fell asleep before Bette could get you to do it before."
He suddenly felt conscious of his breath. He pressed his lips together and nodded.
She reached for something on his bedside table as he attempted to prop himself on his left elbow without dislodging the IV in his arm. He managed, but just in case he had forgotten, the burn in his back reminded him, increasing the searing to just below unbearable for a moment. He was lucky she had not been watching, as his face contorted.
She passed him a small cup full of some slightly discoloured liquid. He carefully made sure not to make contact with her olive skinned hand as he grasped the cup. He quickly poured the liquid into his mouth and swished it around. He watched as her eyes, slightly soft in focus, moved from his own, to his chin, to his arms and finally to his body.
He spits the liquid back into the cup, pulling her abruptly from her thoughts. "What's wrong?"
It was her turn to blink, as her eyes quickly returned to look at his. She swallowed. She looked at him for a moment too long, before averting her gaze again. "You should probably change sides," she states almost stoically, reaching for the towel at the end of his bed, "you've been on your left side for a while."
He was frozen for a moment, before he nodded in agreement. The constant burn in his back and top ups of morphine had hidden the numbness on his left side. He reached out to pass her the cup, absentmindedly she reached out for it and her hand wrapped around his. They locked eyes for a moment, both of them frozen. Her warm hand around his slightly clammy one. It was slightly awkward, but he didn't dare move his hand.
However, she did, quickly moving her fingers to grip the bottom and her thumb at the rim. She carefully slid the cup out of his grip, and carefully placed it back on his bedside table.
She quickly passes him the towel in her other hand. "For your teeth."
He looks blankly at her, before his eyebrows rise just slightly in confusion. "Morphine is good, but you're still going to feel it," she whispered, as she motioned to his back.
"Right."
He put the towel between his teeth as she went for the vial connected to his IV line, hanging delicately above his bed. Once she had the vial in her hands, and the line threaded through her fingers, she gave him a nod to begin.
She wasn't lying about needing the towel. He bent his knee and pushed through his heel. His body rotated, and the pain was searing. It was shooting up his back into his shoulders, down his back into his legs. He bit into the towel and hissed lightly as he rolled onto his opposite side. She was already there, hanging up the vial. He continued to bite into the towel, as the pain began to pulsate outwards from the wound.
He closed his eyes, hoping that that would somehow improve the pain. However it did the opposite, it was like he could visualise the pain now. It was shooting like electric shocks exploding from the wound, while the epicenter burned, like a slow burning, air hungry fire. He opened his eyes, and the pain immediately dulled without the visual additions. He could feel her behind him, attempting to delicately place pillows behind his shoulders and legs.
He stayed still, and he could feel the pain begin to subside. As the pain drew back to manageable levels, there was another need that instantly rose to his attention. The hunger. Again, that ravenous hunger was back. He wished he could wait, but he couldn't. He wished he could tell her that his metabolism was unlike any other man's at baseline, and now it was running on overdrive. He hadn't eaten in five days, and he was healing, from what he could gather, some pretty nasty wounds on his back.
He cursed himself internally for asking her. "Do you have any food?"
There was a pause behind him. There was silence for another moment. God he felt like an idiot. "I might have some crackers."
He looked up to the white wall in front of him. He just stared at it. It suddenly dawned on him that he was now only able to simply stare at the wall until he fell asleep. He had no view of the room. No way to reach his bedside table, not that he could really do that anyway. No way to see who was coming from behind him - and that was the part that bothered him the most.
There's a flash, so bright that he's blinded.
He tries to stop his mind from repeating the imagery. He was okay. He wasn't in battle. He was safe. He was okay. He wasn't in battle. He was safe. But it keeps playing in his mind like a motion picture.
Something rams him in the throat, and he feels like he's choking.
He was okay. He wasn't in battle. He was safe. He was okay. He wasn't in battle. He was safe.
He wasn't sure how long he could repeat that mantra to himself before he decided to rip out his IV and bear the brunt of the excruciating pain to roll back onto his left side. He could hear her shoes, sounding purposefully louder than usual. He could only thank god for her perfect timing. He had the feeling she knew better than to sneak up on a soldier.
She delivered the food into his hands, their hands touching with no awkward pauses this time. There was a stash of multiple snacks, not just crackers. There was some white bread, a can of tinned.. something, and a small bar of chocolate. "If you can kindly wait until the next shift starts for the repeat of earlier, I will be eternally grateful."
He managed to smile at her sly jab this time. For the first time, he had the energy to deliver a reply. "How long do I need to hold it in for?"
She looked to the wall behind her, looking for the clock, and after a moment, said, "Another 15 minutes."
She looked back at him, guilt now decorating his facial features. "I'm sorry again."
She raised both her eyebrows at him as she turned to leave his bedside, "You owe me a new pair of shoes, West."