What Charlotte Said; W. Schofield

2.

*Gore warning

Slowly, Charlotte angled her hands over the young boy's wound. He appeared to be only about eighteen or nineteen.

"Shh, shh..." she murmured as he cried out, "It's morphine, don't worry, just a prick," she hushed, placing her left hand on his cheek, brushing her thumb over his dirty cheekbones.

"Please, Miss, please!" he whimpered. Then, within seconds, he began to calm down, his eyelids growing heavy.

"There, there," Charlotte hushed, reaching for a pair of long tweezers. "I just need to get the bullet out; you shouldn't feel a thing."

She delicately probed the wound, Madeline strategically holding a bandage to its lower part, skillfully capturing the crimson liquid that spilled from the side of the young man's stomach. It was a chaotic scene, navigating through the tissue desperately attempting to clot itself once more. Undeterred, she persistently extracted small shards of copper and lead. Finally, she confidently seized what seemed to be the last fragment.

"Lynn," she called, extending her hand. The brunette promptly placed stringy-white gauze in her palm. This phase was her least favorite, yet she approached it with unwavering determination.

Plunging a finger into the wound, she meticulously explored for an artery. The firm stub suddenly asserted itself under her touch. Bundling up the gauze in her other hand, she proceeded to systematically pack it into the wound, displaying a precision born of extensive experience until no air space remained. The young man's blood adhered to her gloved fingers and hands, emanating a deeply unsettling scent she recognized all too well—the unmistakable odor of war. The boy let out a soft sob and let his head lag to the left.

Charlotte pulled down her mask, giving a weak smile and a half nod, then she stepped outside. With a sigh, she started towards the spigot, off to wash her hands and dispose of her gloves. Leather boots made repeated contact with the mud; that same disgusting squishing sound that she loathed so very much would haunt her in sleep when she returned to Whitby, if there was anything left of the small town.

The looming rainclouds outside echoed the steady drip of blood from the soldier's wound, triggering memories of another time, another rain-threatened, grey day. A day etched in her memory, almost as deeply as the scars on the soldiers she treated.

Whitby and Hartlepool were shelled in December 1914, with Scarborough being the main target of the German vessels. On that fateful day of the sixteenth, three people were killed. Charlotte's mother and eldest brother Donald among them. She figured that if she hadn't been so terrified at the time, she could've done something; maybe at least one of them would still be alive. Overall, the casualties from each target added up to 137 deaths. 80 seriously wounded. This is when Charlotte decided to become a nurse, in hopes that people wouldn't have to suffer the same loss that haunts her each time she sees embers floating on the wind.

Boys all around her were sleeping, playing cards and smoking fags. The normal ambiance actually became comforting in a way, the scent of smoke stinging her nostrils all the way down to her lungs and then out again. The spigot caught her view; it was perched between two trees, one of yew and the other of aspen. Each bore a sleeping soldier just below its canopy of serenity.

Carefully, she crept around the two, gripping the rusty spigot with all her remaining strength, only to find there was rust corroding the hinges. After a few more grunts and gasps, the taller one, from under the Aspen, awoke. This was the same boy from last night; blue eyes met blue eyes. Quickly she looked down, letting go of the rusty metal.

"Here," he murmured quietly, grabbing the rusty hinge and hauling it upwards then back down. Water sputtered then began to flow out of the nozzle at an uneven rate, "there."