Inked In Crimson #9 (He)

Dear Katherine,

I am numb. As numb as the dried tree outside. As numb as the body of a soldier lying in the cold territory. As numb as the clogged blood in my wound.

As numb as the piece of paper clutched with the tightest of grips in my hand.

There is a certain extent to which man can be shocked. Crossing that extent is when he feels betrayed.

I’m feeling betrayed. By you.

Now I know why you sounded so nervous the first time you met me. Now I know why you made your presence felt at the dinner gathering. Now I know why you stiffened at the word ‘betrayal’ at the Easter fest. And now I know why you ‘come here from time to time’ at the first place.

I reopen the crumpled note and read the contents for the fourth time –

Report (K. Mc. to Confederate F. L.) – Talk between Brig. Farnsworth and Meade - “…troops sent to Richmond and Baltimore. Only abt. 3000 barrels of g. powder left. More arriving from Virginia.” Mentioned something like ‘Southern Frontier occupancy plan’ and ‘SPAC’. Approach Maj.R. Confed. Clear.

This cannot be true. Not at all. How can it be? It’s so, so unnatural. This must be a nightmare. A horrendous, forgettable nightmare. This is for the first time that I am shuddering not because of the cold, but because of a reality that has left me aghast.

I do not have a shield

To protect myself from this shower of attacks,

I do not have any armor

To screen me from this deluge of trauma,

This unforeseen truth has left me naked against circumstances. Yet, all I can do is stand in anticipation, and accept the cannons that demolish my building of trust.

I pick the syringe from where I had kept it – on the blood-stained mattress. How iconic this placement is. The syringe that concealed from me the cruel actuality lies upon the bed of my love, on the portion stained with the blood of betrayal. How gruesome, cold-hearted and brutal does this image look now.

I am in a state of pitiless dilemma. My good mind says that your betrayal must not be at the cost of my love. My accursed mind says that your betrayal suggests that my love was farce. And between these two minds is me, crammed in a congestion that may cost me my fate.

Shall I or shall I not inform this to the General? If I do not, I betray my side. In such circumstances I shall commit the heinous sin of treachery. And if I do, I betray my love. In that case, what is the difference between you and I? Both of us are disloyal to each other.

On one side lies the trench of treason,

And on the other, the cliff of compassion;

And then there is the mirage of mayhem,

Trapped in the desert of dilemma.

But I must listen to my instincts. I always have, for they are my right senses. I heeded them when they said you were a trustworthy companion. And now they say that I shall not arrive to conclusions so early. Maybe this note isn’t yours at all. Maybe it wasn’t you who had concealed the note in the syringe.

Maybe you aren’t a Confederate spy.

No, I shouldn’t be doing things quickly without giving a second thought. I shall approach you first, before going to the general. I must ensure whether or not it was you who had written this note. I shall first make sure whether my suspicion of your identity is in any way right.

I hope it isn’t.

Daniel