Inked In Crimson #1 (He)
It’s fascinating how the sun rises in the morning, looks up over the entire world, and sets in peace - becalmed, content and pacified.
But the sun does not know of our sufferings.
It is two years since my recruitment, and the dust hasn’t settled yet. Friends keep on dying, families keep on breaking, and tears keep weeping and falling on our blue trousers. There is no sign of truce between us; us who lead the same lives in the same country, us who love the nation as much as our lives, and us who long for peace as much as a family.
The only difference that sets us apart is that they support slavery, and we don’t.
So we fight, and fight we will, till the end.
But today, my friend, I’m not going to discuss what happened at the war zone.
Today, I shall tell you about a girl.
She is twentyish with flaxen hair in a tight wad at the back of her head. She seems to be working as a medical supplier at our regiment. I do not say she’s beautiful, because she is even prettier. She does not have blue eyes, glossy cheeks or a thin monobrow.
But she’s beautiful because her beauty is so much more to what she is.
I wonder why I didn’t see her before. Maybe it was my job that stood before me. Maybe I wasn’t as immature as I am now. Maybe she wasn’t a medicine supplier before that day.
It was a yet another check-up session at our camp when I met her. She had entered in my quarters to supply fluid injections. I was on my bed, ready for another two-hour round of ‘medically prescribed’ rest.
She entered in and gave some syringes to the head nurse.
I decided to begin a conversation.
“You’re new here?”
“No. I come here from time to time.”
She sounded nervous.
I gathered some courage, and asked her what her name was.
To my surprise, she froze.
“Katherine,” she finally replied.
That night, Katherine was the only word jerking back and forth in my mind.
I met her again yesterday, at the check-up session.
This time, she herself was in charge of giving injections. She sat beside me, took out the syringe, and injected the contents through my left arm, holding it with hers. She asked me about my life in and out of the war field, presumably to keep me out of pain.
“So, Second Lieutenant who?”
“Adams. Daniel Adams.”
“Okay, so Second Lieutenant Daniel Adams, how did you end up here - I mean, what made you join the Union?”
“I was born in Illinois, which very well makes me a part of the Union.”
“Do you mean you are here, in this suit, because of your birth?
“Not exactly. After all, when you choose a side, it takes time to actually realize why you chose it at the first place. It was after I joined the army that I found I was on the right side.”
“So how’s your gun?”
She sounded confident.
“It’s still young. It’s not gonna retire early. It’s going to end its life only after shooting the hell out of those Confeds.”
“You sound quite optimistic about your win. Do you enjoy this war business?”
“I do.”
I know I lied. But she went on to clarify her question.
“No, what I’m saying is – do you like people getting killed? Do you think that’s right?”
“Yes I do. But only if the bodies are not ours. The Confeds can be silenced only by gunshots. But if our men die, it’s a great loss. We lose one man, and we lose one supporter of putting a stop to slavery, one supporter of humanity.”
“Well,” she said, as she pressed some cotton onto my skin, “Will you mind if I were to ask you about your family?”
It was considered a nursing etiquette to ask such questions.
“Not at all,” her hand was still on mine, and it felt soothing to have someone sitting by my side, “I don’t have one.”
“What? You don’t have a family?”
I did not reply.
That was her last question. Maybe she found it best not to ask any further.
“Okay, so Second Lieutenant Daniel Adams, two hours rest and you’re free. Take care of yourself.”
She took her hand away, packed up and went out for the next soldier.
And I, like a loner, continued to look at the tent exit from where she departed.
I really want to see her again. I do wish to know more of her.
It may sound childish, but I really do.