A Beautiful Haunting

Were they that familiar, those curves... Did they feel that smooth, that soft, hold the fabrication of perfection as they always did. Or did the luster fade, drain into some rust bitten bucket of yesterdays corpse harvest. A ghostly touch might remember such things, but now they were just shadows from a forgotten past. Something that should not be dug up, for the ancient embodied beneath all of that dirt, grime and soil... The cold lunatics stare that spilled out over the hungering flesh beasts, also known as the bums, lurking in the sewers. Waiting underneath caged prisons for a droplet of affection. This exorcised the demons from within the pain smelted heart. How was it he could hear her heart, over the thundering drums of war. That stench he had let fill his lungs, over and over, that stench of the bodies that stood on, laid on at night, crawled over when shelled upon. That stench of rotten flesh. The sawed down pencil, jagged and cut from the top. Carved so that the led could achieve it's purpose, clenched in two fingers. Shivering, the cold seeping down into the young bones, letting the chill of fear settle down.

Dear Avery...
  ... It's cold, very cold. So cold that when you move you can hear your joints cracking. I can't bear to wear my helmet, the steel is just to cold. They say that you should always wear it, it prevents sudden death. I can't believe that, because I have seen the latter effects. The screams, they crying of grown men. There tears have stained my hands in the heat of combat. These eyes have seen more than any man should have. Only doctors should see that much of someones internal organs. I cry, I cry for you, for us, for the men I fight with, for my family, for the state of this war. They say peace dwindles in the future, but how long? how many more deaths must I witness. I can't wait to see you again, I miss you so. I long for your touch, the scent of your crimson hair, the caress of your snowy skin. And I promise, eight kids. A large house, and lots of animals. That is our dream, right? I must go now, the bombing is going to start soon, Love Jason.

That was the last letter Jenny had received. The mother of Avery, the one keeping this chain of confusion going. Bleeding out her emotions, her support, her daughters words of false content, to help this young child through his struggles in the euros. Megan looked over at her, from across the kitchen table. Her hands resting on it's surface, staring with sadness. "You know, this is cruel.." She offered, meeting Jenny's gaze, which had the same dismal thunder storm brewing in the iris. "Yes, I know this, but It's better than offering him the truth. The truth of what has happened, it would break him. He would die there.." Jenny reached across the table, brushing the concerned mothers hand, squeezing it with some holy constitution, and venerated look of support. "I agree, but what if he survives, what If he makes it back, and his Avery is gone. What then, what have you done to him then." Jenny let out a whimper, clutching the letter, dragging her digits down the surface of the page, as if trying to grip the words, and pull them into reality. Her daughter had died four months ago, TB, that was what the doctors had offered her with. Since that time, she had wrote on as her daughter, In hopes to support this poor soul, lost and worried across the vast mysterious oceans.

Dear Jason...
  ... I'm very sorry to hear of your woes, and your tribulations. I hear the Germans zealotry and it saddens me, saddens me that they would fight for something as important as the human life. I pray here, back at home, and I hope that you are well. My mother tells me that she can't wait to meet you, and she is very worried about your health. She says to keep fresh socks, and stay out of muddy water. We are doing a lot here at home, supporting the war, supporting you troops. Be safe out there, be safe my love, and come back home. Love always, Avery.

War has it's on set of rules, on the mortal body. Mentally and physically we can not define the vast collisions of terms. The elements are spun with the thread of chaos, and developed through human experiences. Seeing and individual die, cry, or mourn. To see them at the brink of humanity, clutching at the last bit of realism offered by the burning steel tip of a slug, sunk deep down into their chest cavity. That is reality, the pain of a searing bullet, that wound is never cured. Even if you survive, you can feel the cold burning pain, feeling it tugging at the stitched skin. Jason had experienced this, he had seen humanity smashed, shattered and ripped into bits of nothing. He had seen this happen. But it was worth it, when they liberated the camps. He felt that serene aura of joy, that benevolent look of absoluteness. He felt warm, in a cold world. And that is what conflicted with him. He touched the written letter, and closed his eyes, just letting the material weight against his war rugged digits.

<To be continued>