War

She looks out the window, gazing over the frosty grass, searching. He’s out there, somewhere. It’s been months since she heard from him and all she can do is wait and sit, sit and wait. She’s feels like she’s been sitting and waiting her whole life. But for him? For him, she’s prepared to sit and wait her whole life away. She stares out, eyes running far, across the waxy green. Misty eyes over icy ground. She stares and stares and doesn’t blink, for fear that she will miss him.

Not that she isn’t already missing him. Without him, she has absolutely nothing. No reason to wake up and get out of bed, to dress and clean or to do any of the silly things that used to seem so important. The world is grey to her. Without him, she is tired all the time.

She looks with tired eyes over a sad world. Straining to catch sight of anything that may suggest his return to her. She lets her eyes wander far, far away, between the trees, taking the same path that he took, when he left. Called away by the voices of thousands, by the sound of guns. She wouldn’t say goodbye to him. She couldn’t look him in the face, but stitched her eyes to his back as he walked off, unable to keep him and unable to let him go. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, she felt as if her heart had stopped moving and her mouth was filled with cotton. When he told her that he was leaving, she wouldn’t believe him. She couldn’t let herself. It was the first time they exchanged harsh words. Which was all the worse, because she knew that she didn’t have time to be angry with him. She didn’t have enough time for anything.

Watching him pack was awful. He took few things, only what he could carry. She wanted to scream and cry, to hit him as hard as she could, but she knew that she had to be strong. It would only make things harder. She loved him so much it hurt. Looking out the window, she felt as old as the world and twice as weary. She had tried hating him, hoping that she could live in anger. She’d tried being proud of him, being optimistic about his return…. The only thing that ever remained was the emptiness. That hideous, lonely nothing. Her life was as bleak as the dead grass and the stupid frost spilled all over it.

Still looking out the window, she takes note of the lacy skeletons of the trees on the horizon, trying to make a human figure appear from behind them. When they were married, those trees were positively caked with life. The pink that bled from their boughs, the green that was spotted throughout, the absolute joy that was to be gotten from simply turning closed eyes towards the lot of them and inhaling… The sun had shone warm and bright on that day, the grass had been cool and healthy. The world had seemed perfect, as though nothing would ever be wrong again. Not like now. He had looked so handsome. Of course, he had looked handsome every day… but not like this. He was glowing with the joy of it all and she was fairly certain that she was the same. The pink flowers had descended upon the world and made everything all right. Though, beyond the horizon, the entire universe seemed ready to fall apart, the one little house with the pink trees and the sunny garden got to have a happily ever after, if only for a little while. It was bliss.

And she loved him. Oh, she loved him. When the pastor asked if she would love forever, she spoke a pink flower and the world was perfect. The exchange of their vows, the dancing, the short bit of time before the sun set and the flowers could no longer be seen, the end of such a completely perfect day. Their families rode away and they were left together, ready to begin their own forever.

But it wasn’t forever. The sound of guns stole him away from her and she was left standing in their garden, watching him stride away, the crisp new uniform crinkling for the first time. She watched him until he became a blue splotch in the distance. She watched and watched until he was nothing but a knot in the lace of the tree silhouettes. Before long, he wasn’t even that. And she has been watching ever since, leaving her windowsill only for the occasional meal, or to bathe every now and again. She takes in a deep breath, wishing that she could still smell him around the house. His scent has faded from her existence, leaving her finally alone, without even a reminder in his old shirts. She tried to make it last as long as possible, but like all things seem to, it left her. Just like his voice and touch, just like the memories are beginning to.

Shifting slightly on her pillow, she picks idly at the embroidery that was so carefully done, back when she cared about such things. Her eyes remain fixed upon the glowing view out her window, blinded slightly by the bleak, white, sky and the reflection on the icy grass. She blinks from the pain of all of the white, still refusing to turn her eyes away from the slight chance that he will suddenly appear, a dark shape on the bright sky. Nothing but nothing, day by day.

The day she knew she loved him, it had rained. It was a hot rain, trembling with thunder and lightning. The electricity in the air got into her heart somehow, filling it with a shaky confusion and making her whole body flash hot and cold as suddenly as the sky. They had gone for a walk, unthinkingly leaving any sort of protection against the weather at home, and were caught in the storm. It was only a few seconds before they were both soaked. He tried to find somewhere for them to take shelter, but there was nothing around for miles except the pink trees (which were being quickly shredded and dissolving into the dark wind). They ran for cover, thinking only to get out of the rain, and huddled under the trees (which, by now, had no trace of pink about them) clutching one another as though afraid of being torn apart. It was in that moment, so close to him, that she realised that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him and hoped to God that he felt the same. All she could think was that she never wanted to smell someone else or feel their warmth, it was only him. And when the storm ended and they struggled home through the mud together, he made it clear that he felt exactly the same way.

Remembering such things is wonderful, but brings her pain. She wrinkles her eyebrows together, so tired without him, but unable to sleep. If they had had time to have children, she would at least have them to comfort her. She has no money for servants, no family nearby able to care for her. She will not leave, for fear that he will return home and not find her and that they will be separated forever. She clings to the pink trees, no longer pink, waiting it out. She knows that he must return to her. She feels that the world will not let them go on so miserable forever. That it is simply not allowed. That they must have a happy ending.

She looks across the field, wondering if she should have something to eat, wondering if she can bear to leave the window. It is so hard for her to trust that he will come home without her watching long enough to do simple household tasks. It is so hard for her to do anything anymore. Not like when they first met.

When they first met, she was cheerful and gay. She didn’t hesitate to tease him. She didn’t live slowly enough. She flirted through life and wasted far too much of the precious time that she could have had with him. Anything she knew before him, anything at all, seems now totally unimportant and is easily forgotten. The first time she saw him, she was only a young girl. They met on a Sunday. They met at the church, introduced by a common acquaintance. They lived far apart, with the church between them, so Sundays became a joy. Soon, they were finding excuses to see one another. He would offer to help around her family’s house, or would bring her strawberries because he knew she was fond of them. They fell in love slowly, in the long days that they let run away over the hills.

And before she knew it, he was gone, and she was sitting at the window every hour of every day. She was memorizing the horizon. Staring at the trees that seemed to melt into the sky. Wishing that he would return. Knowing that he may not, but never allowing herself to think such things. She sits and waits, hoping for any news. For some time, they were writing to one another, letter after letter, writing every day. Writing about stupid things that didn’t matter, but writing nonetheless. Anything to receive word from the other. Whatever those words might be. Nearly a month ago, however, that stopped. His letters no longer came. She kept writing for a while, but ran out of things to say and will to write them. Finally, she stopped writing. Now, all she does is sit and wait, wait and sit. She prays for his return and keeps her eyes fixed tightly on the horizon. And always, she thinks of him.

He is far away. Fighting a war that he didn’t start and that he has no real stake in. His uniform is too big, his gun too heavy. He runs across the soggy land, dodging bullets and thinking only of her. He feels terrible for leaving her simply because of some obligation he felt toward family or friends... he doesn’t even remember. He wrote letter after letter, trying to put into words his sorrow and his regret. Nevertheless, he continues. He goes on because of his stupid sense of honor and that dratted need to finish what he started. Every night, when the other men talk and sing and boast, he stares into the fire and remembers his little white house with the pink trees. He remembers his little wife and the look on her face when he explained what he believed that he needed to do. It was a look that broke his heart.

His heart still hasn’t mended. Every now and then he’ll hear her voice carried in the wind and turn, thinking she came after him. He’ll hear her calling his name and yell after her, yell and yell until his voice is gone and he realizes that there was nothing there in the first place. In the camp, he is known for his sadness and is mocked for it. But he doesn’t care. They may see the world as blue and beautiful, but everything for him is simply grey. He lives only to live. He will die of all the grey.

He is drowning, though he tries to hide it. He marches with the others and does all that he is told, but each step further from the pink trees hurts him more than the last. He is bleeding to death on the inside. He is beyond caring about anything. Perhaps this is the perfect mentality for one of his occupation, for all he wants is the end of the war, no matter what he must do to bring it about. He hates everything, even her, for it all brings him so much pain. Knowing that he’ll probably never return to her and that she will be left waiting, forever and ever. He can’t bear to think about it. About her.

Sitting in that windowsill. She brings a cup of tea and keeps her eyes scanning, however dark it is beginning to get. She will ruin her eyesight this way, not that it matters to her in the least bit. Not that anything really matters. The ring on her left hand catches the light of the setting sun, or what of it can be seen behind the white snow clouds that are moving ever closer to her little house. She hasn’t lit a fire, it doesn’t feel like there’s any point in trying to stay warm. It doesn’t feel like there’s any point in anything anymore. She’s beginning to wonder if it’s even worth trying to stay alive for him. She doesn’t know if he’s even alive. He hasn’t written in so long that she is beginning to think that he’s dead. That thought is terrifying. How will she know if he has died? Will someone write to her? Will someone come and tell her? Or will he just be a body with no name or face, left somewhere to bury itself in time and mud? The world is such a hopeless shade of grey.

He is running. Whether he’s running toward something or away from it, he can’t even begin to remember. He only knows that he was told to run, so he is doing it. He jumps over a small creek, holding his gun high above his head to keep the powder dry. It seems useless, with the mist that is creeping up on them, but he is far too weary to make challenges. He runs and runs, trying to keep up with everyone else when he cares so little about exactly what it is they are doing. He lets his mind fly away, across the frosty, misty, land back to his little white house, where his little wife sits in the window with her cup of tea and watches for him. Forever. He doesn’t even feel it when the bullet goes through him, because he is so far away. He keeps running for some time, running until he suddenly finds himself falling. He falls into the cold water and lies there, trying to figure out what is happening. Why his lungs don’t work. Why he can’t get up. He looks around, at last resting his eyes up on the sky, noticing that the sun has finally set, that the deep indigo has finally dyed the entire bowl above him, dotted by the few stars that show at this early hour.

She sees the stars, too. She knows that it will soon be futile to look out after him. She knows that she should light the woodstove and lamps, that she should go to bed. But she can’t bring herself to move. At the moment, staring at the stars feels like the most important thing she has ever done.

He looks up at the those stars, thinking about her. Then he looks down. His crisp, blue, uniform is no longer either of those. So many days on the march have taken the life out of his uniform. It’s old and dirty, wrinkled and torn. And it is certainly not blue anymore. There is a terrible hole in the fabric, both in cotton and in flesh. His life is slowly spilling out, into the stream that he finds himself unable to stand up from. He broke the ice, when he fell, and is now lying, partially blanketed by the freezing water, as the hot liquid of his life drools down his vest, to be drunk thirstily by the tiny creek.

She looks out, seeing nothing, and watches as her eyes grow hazy. Soon, she can no longer see for the fuzziness of her vision. The trees are nearly gone and the grass glows softly, promising to be invisible in a few minutes. She leans her head back against the grainy wood of her window and takes in a deep breath, trying to remember how to let it out again. Her entire body seems to sink into the frame of the window, as though she has become a part of the house, a white beacon waiting for his return.

He looks down at his chest in shock, staring at the red mud that he seems to have gotten all over himself. He knows what this means, but he can’t let himself accept it, for her sake. He watches as it spirals away from him in the nearly frozen creek. He feels himself freezing, too, and knows now that he probably will not see her again. He looks up at the stars and winks back at them. He knows that she’ll be watching. And as he looks up at the sky, the stream continues to flow and it takes his life right with it.

She looks out over the land, knowing that something has changed. Knowing that there is no reason to light the stove or to wash her face. Knowing that there probably never again will be such a reason. And with this knowledge, she finally lets go. Her misty eyes begin to rain as she blindly searches, hopelessly, desperately needing him to appear on the horizon. But the last light of the deep sky is gone and she dissolves.

It is then that she wakes up. She had fallen asleep on the windowsill, while considering whether or not to make a pot of tea. The sun is just now sinking below the horizon and the wind is blowing cold over the icy grass. A scattering of snowflakes are beginning to make their descent, covering the lacy trees and blending the whole world into the sky.

She doesn’t know if he is alive. Perhaps she never will. She looks out one more time, before turning her face away from the window and going into the rest of the cold, cold house. She lights the woodstove and fixes her tea. She walks slowly across the floor of the house they built together, feeling hundreds of years old. She sets the table for two. A lonely dinner passes and she tidies up, that hopeless feeling beginning again. She stands in front of the window for a long while, looking out at the dark sky and the stars that have begun to spatter it, the warm glow of the lamp and stove behind her. She turns toward the empty room and takes a piece of paper from the writing desk. She can’t give up hope. She will write him a letter.