You Only Die Once

Chapter 1

Chicago 1918

Blood seeped from the bullet wounds in my side; my gun was slick with the stuff. The ground beneath my feet was heaped with rotting bodies. Eyes popped out of sockets, insides became outsides, and severed limbs were scattered ten feet away. I could feel that some of them were still alive,and trying to claw their way out with what little energy they had left. The trench walls were coated with piss and vomit; apparently people urinate when they die.

Someone had died in the middle of the trenches; I tripped over them and braced myself for impact. I landed with a heavy thud. I lay there gasping, trying to breathe again. After a few minutes, I scrambled to my feet. As soon as I was standing again, a hand snaked around my ankle and pulled me back down.

I lay on my back, paralyzed with fear. After a few seconds, I heard the sounds of something being dragged,and I felt the hand sliding up to my thigh, then my chest, and shoulder. I squeezed my eyes shut, and hoped that I was dreaming. That I would wake up in my bed, and that this wasn't real. I felt hot breath on my cheek, and cracked one eye open. I shouldn't have. It was like looking into the face of death. I glanced down, trying to avoid his eyes.

A split second later, I realized what the dragging noises were. Everything from his waist down was gone; blown off. When I finally looked back up at him, his face was inches from mine. His left eye was missing, and his face was smeared with miscellaneous bits. He leaned even closer and I could smell rotting flesh. He whispered:

"You only die once, boy. What're you dying for?

I woke up with a loud yell.
I grabbed my watch and the letter from the nightstand, then rolled over onto my side, trying to avoid the part of my mattress that was damp with sweat. I was trying to read the letter, but my palms were so moist that the ink ran, and the writing was basically illegible. That actually wasn't a problem, though, because I had already read it once.

I had fetched the mail earlier, but I had only expected bills or salutations from relatives who claimed sudden bankruptcy ( its not my fault that the question of your children's father is a multiple choice question Margaret). This was a more serious matter. This was a draft letter. It was my turn to serve up a slice of German ass.

In truth, I was speechless. I was terrified. I wanted to cry, throw up, and piss myself. Simultaneously.

I slunk out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom. I was too shaky to go downstairs, so I decided to try shaving instead. I must've thought that forcing my hands to be steady would calm me down.

I pulled my shaving kit out of the medicine cabinet, and tilted my chin, trying to examine my jawline. I have a pretty good jaw, if I do say so myself. I can't get away with not shaving for very long because my stubble is this real dark brown. After a couple of days, the bottom half of my face starts to resemble mud. My hair's the same shade of brown, but it doesn't look nearly half as bad as my chin. I took out the shaving cream and smeared it all over.

Twelve years ago, when I was six, I tried to shave for the first time and ended up losing my eyebrows. I'm real good at it now though, and my eyebrows kinda grew back. The razor was steady in my hand, but I still nicked myself twice. I took off my shirt and tried to dab at the cuts. The bleeding wouldn't stop, and I swear that I got dizzy for a few seconds.

When the bleeding finally stopped, I ended up scrubbing at my face with the shirt. I swear that I'm allergic to the cream, it makes my skin itch every time I use it. After I stopped itching, my face had faint streaks of blood on it. I figured that I should get rid of them before they dried. Instead, I went back into my room. I was steady enough by now, but I was beat.

My room is the best room in the whole house. It has a bed, a door, and a beautiful view of my next door neighbor's brick wall. If I'm really lucky, I even get to see them arguing, or tossing plates at each other.

The letter was still on the nightstand, and for a minute I considered burning it. Then I realized that I didn't have a working fireplace. I could burn it in my yard, but then I'd have to explain why I didn't show up. I'd also have to explain to my neighbors that my house wasn't on fire.

I had these real nosy neighbors. I didn't even remember their names.
They were these real old folks with gray hair, specs, and crow's feet for days. I hardly ever saw them.

Sometimes I'd see them peeking over the fence at me, trying to get an eyeful. One time, they actually came outside and the old woman started chasin' me. She was wearing this real tight ,paisley dress, matching shoes, and she had her hair up in a bun. She looked like a curtain. She grabbed onto me and tore my new shirt. It was a real nice one too. It was my Sunday shirt, for church. It was the most expensive shirt I had ever bought, and just like that, it was ruined.

I pushed back my hair, decided that getting drafted was inevitable, and concluded that there was just one thing to do: drink. I poured three fingers of whiskey and sat down in my chair. I tipped the shot glass back and about half of it ran down my shirt and on the carpet. My hands must have been shaking.

I gave up on the hopeful prospect of inebriation and decided to head out. Maybe I could bum a smoke off of Ol' Jack. He always liked me. Without a second thought, I headed out, slamming the door behind me, but not before hitting my head on it. Being 6'2 is nothing but a pain.

When I headed out, I immediately regretted it. There were posters for the draft everywhere. I tore a couple down out of pure spite. I headed down to the corner store and was greeted by Ol' Jack himself. The corner store was filled with newspapers and medicine, the faded yellow paint concealed by old posters.

Jack's hairline had receded to the point of non-existence since the last time I saw him, and his eyes were covered by a milky film. He was also twice as deaf, and I had to talk real slow and loud whenever he was around. Against my better judgement, I decided to give him a go. After all, who knew if I would ever get a chance after I shipped out?

"Hey. Everything jake? "

He stared at me for a few seconds, and cocked his head. His wrinkles deepened as he squinted at me.

" Do I know you,son? "

I stared back at him for a few seconds and let out a deep sigh. "We met yesterday. My name's Chris." We had actually met years ago, and I came here everyday, but it was easier to tell him otherwise.

His eyes widened for a second, and I assumed that he remembered me. It was a stupid assumption, since he generally doesn't remember what he ate for breakfast, much less anybody else. "Came in yesterday, eh? I don't remember you." You don't remember much of anything. I kept my mouth shut. I wanted a pack of smokes before ma came home. I also needed to replace the Old Overholt I spilled before I told her about the letter.

She would want me to go. They all wanted me to go. It's not as if I had a choice.
I nicked a deck of Murad fags off the shelf and tossed it onto the counter. They were twenty cents but I only had a dime and a nickel. Jack took the money and pulled a nickel out of his breast pocket. I tried to refuse it; I'm not a charity case, but he ignored me and pushed the deck of smokes into my hand anyway. " I know where you're going. You're gonna need 'em. Where you're goin', five cents ain't worth shit."

I stuffed the smokes into my pocket and headed towards the drafting tent. If I didn't do it now, I wouldn't do it ever.

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