Shall Not Sleep [bxb]

Chapter Six

I knew nothing about him.

When I realized it, I couldn't get it off my mind. He was British, and he was at The Somme—a horror I couldn't even let myself think about—and he had enough money to buy me a gorgeous gold pocket watch. That was all I had.

I lay awake, pocket watch in hand, like I had for the past week. It ticked reassuringly, steadily keeping time, but the sound kind of unsettled me. I was too used to digital clocks and cell phone displays. I wasn't used to hearing time go by; it reminded me how mortal I was. And of course, how far away I was from this person who liked me enough to send me such a beautiful gift. Time was the enemy.

I rolled over onto my side, holding the watch against my chest. How easy would it be to pretend he was there with me? I imagined the solid, certain weight of him on the bed behind me, knees sliding in behind mine. I imagined his breath on my neck, his hand creeping around my stomach. I closed my eyes and imagined turning, finding his lips in the dark, and kissing him softly. Kissing him soft and then hard all throughout the night because, hey, he's a soldier on leave.

My whole body went electric until I started doing the math. He was nineteen years old in 1916. That meant he was born in 1897.

Which meant, assuming he lived to be a hundred, he would have died when I was three years old. Most likely, he died without ever having shared this planet with me at all.

I shut my eyes tighter and tried to go back to the fantasy, but it didn't work. Of course, the tears came. Hot, burning, bitter. Inescapable. I turned my head to let the cotton soak them up, but there was something on the pillow next to my head—something with a sharp corner. Instantly, I jolted upright and fumbled for the lamp switch.

An envelope. It was crinkled and folded partway in half, and it was definitely not there just a moment before.

With trembling hands, I opened it.

Dear Max,

It has taken me almost an hour of staring at this paper, trying to decide what words to write you. Your letters arrived on the same day, but not through the post this time. One fell out of my folded shirt as I picked it up. The other appeared, as if by magic, beneath my pillow. If your photographs were not proof enough, that would be.

My thoughts are so disorganized; I can barely sort through them enough to get them all down on paper. Perhaps I should plagiarize your style of complicated letter writing and separate my thoughts into parts. Part One contains my autobiography. Part Two contains my reactions to your photographs. Part Three contains a confession.

Part One: My mother is an heiress to a railroad fortune, imported from America twenty years ago to marry my father, the seventh Earl of Walsingham. One day, providing I'm not blown up on the battlefield, I will be the eighth Lord Walsingham. My heritage is the sole reason I was made a captain. The British Empire seems to believe the only qualification for a position of leadership is high birth. They are mistaken.

Part Two: In large part, your photographs are what kept me from articulating my thoughts for so long. They mesmerize me. I want to show all the men in my division, but I know I shouldn't. As you say, we don't want to rend some kind of hole in the universe. I'm so looking forward to everything the future brings, and seeing those glimpses made me hopeful and excited—as well as just plain happy. Especially at your self-portrait. I cannot stop staring at you. It is more than the photograph itself—the colour! The clarity! My God, I have seen nothing half so glorious—it is you. I risk sounding ridiculous here, but life is short and I could be shot in the morning so I will not hold anything back. You are beautiful. There is something arresting about your stare. I feel as though you were looking right at me when the photograph was taken, through the lens and through the time and distance between us and straight into me. I have been keeping it in a pocket sewn into the inside of my uniform, reserved for tokens from sweethearts and reminders of home, right next to my heart.

Part Three: The last few lines of Part Two may have you feeling suspicious. I've never even written the word before, let alone spoke it aloud, but I am homosexual. Dear God, let this letter not fall into the wrong hands. This confession could land me in prison, and I pray it would not condemn me in your eyes, as well.

I suppose all this babble leads into Part Four: I am quite hopelessly in love with you. Your first letters intrigued me and made me laugh with their strangeness, but with every word you have ensnared and entangled me further. My every waking minute feels brighter because of you, but at the same time, harsher. There's an element of bittersweetness. I'm willing to endure the bitter to savour the sweet, but I must know: do you return any of my feelings? Any at all? I must know.

All my love,

Alastair

PS—Please do think good thoughts for me. I think you are keeping me alive out here. Leave ends tomorrow. Back to the front.

I shivered. I lay back down and turned off the light, keeping the letter pressed to my chest like he does to my photo. I felt for the pocket watch, which had fallen down into the blankets, and traced the inscription with my thumbnail.

The fantasy returned a little easier. I could almost swear he was right here next to me, on the edge of my dreams as I fell asleep.