Inked In Crimson #7 (He)

Dear Katherine,

I am owned.

Owned by a damsel in distress,

Whose frown is as beauteous as the laughter of the Atlantic;

Owned by a figure in meditation,

Whose eyes have a brightness as profound as the Midnight Moon;

Owned by an image of charm,

Whose charisma in unmatchable even for the Niagara;

I am owned.

I sometimes find my life funny. At one moment, I rue my shattered family. The next moment, I rejoice the fact that I met you. And then things look so much in place, that I always end up thinking my life has been a success. Slow, gradual success, that comes only to the favored.

I did not get time to see you before going to the field yesterday; action had to be taken immediately. One of the Union support bases was recklessly chased through the streets of Hanover by the Confeds, and we were chosen for some counter-attack reinforcement. It really needed some nerves to pick up the rifle, load it, and then fire mercilessly at the swarm of soldiers in front of me, especially after such a long break from war.

Yesterday, we killed not one, not two, but hundreds of soldiers who had wives and children; who yearned for love and family reunion more than gunshots and cannon attacks. For the first time in my life as a Union fighter, I felt guilty. Guilty of the unavoidable truth that those men whom I had killed too were sons and fathers. Guilty of the fact that I made some women widows, some children orphans.

I do not know when that bullet was shot and by whom. It emerged from nowhere and found just the right piece of flesh to bury itself into – my left arm.

I faltered, then collapsed. I tried to keep my eyes open, but they just did not. All I remember now is the voice of Henry – “Who’s gonna carry him back?”

Even before I opened my eyes, I realized it was you. And when I did open them, I found you sitting on the same chair beside me, dressing the torn and tattered portion of my skin.

I did not feel the pain of the wound. Maybe because the bullet wasn’t too deep-seeded. Maybe because I was out of senses when the wound was dressed. Maybe because I was treated early.

Maybe because you were sitting beside me.

There is a heart waiting to be knocked,

So that it may open to welcome a new guest,

A guest who had never visited this ruined place before;

And let the guest settle in the soul,

Where she is fed with morsels of adoration,

So that she visits the heart every time she comes in life.

****************************************************************

In the evening, the wind had finally come to a standstill. The dust had settled. Silence had taken its toll everywhere around, and nothing was able to calm the stillness that persisted in the army camp.

You finally rose up from your seat, took the dressing equipment, but spilled the packet of syringes that rested on your lap. You quickly gathered the syringes and left the quarters.

But you missed to pick up one.

I noticed the syringe under my bed after you were gone. But I found something weird with it.

I found it did not look transparent.

There was a note, a written note, rolled up inside the barrel.

I pulled out the plunger, then removed the note from the barrel.

I unrolled the note.

Daniel