𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

mundane or monster- marcel

Marcel joined the army a few years after he turned. He fought with everything in him. He watched his fellow soldiers die from more causes than he thought there could be but still he thought he was doing good. He thought that his 'gift' was something he was meant to share or at least at most, he thought that he could somehow make up for the torture his family left in their wake. However, he soon realized that fighting one war to rectify another was not the way.

"They're pulling us back." John, a soldier states from his spot beside Marcel. The trenches are wet. Muddy. Rotten. Bodies surround them as silence fills the battlefield.  An ambush in their favor as the night before Marcel had led a team into the enemy camp. They took out more than forty of them and lost about fifteen of their own. 

Marcel scoffs. "That's what they always say," He opens a can of food with his knife and squints to see his fingers in the fading light.

"It's true. The death wagon is coming around and we are due for pick up. We just have to make it through one more night. Ain't that right Doug?" Another man sits at their feet. Wounded with a shot to his leg. He lifts the metal helmet from his eyes, his face cold, stony, and faded from paleness. The infection came quickly in the hole- just like death. 

"This is war. We might not make it through the next hour, let alone a whole night. We ain't like you, Gerard, some of us die." He pulls his gun closer to his side. He grimaces and closes his eyes. "Get some sleep boys, sweet dreams may follow. "

Marcel watches the scene around him. Men sleeping, some eating. Most are in pain, needing medical help. Others are not so lucky. It would be immoral to watch them like this, writhing with pain. But turning every one of them would be even worse.

He lifts his knife to his lips to lick it clean and he tries to ignore the visions of horror around him. Doug spoke of dreams, a strange word to use in their position. It had been weeks since anyone slept through the night. Nightmares creep into their thoughts like grenades in the silence.

Although when he did sleep, he saw her. The white of her uniform played with the color of her skin. The redness of her lips as she spoke to him. The care in her hands as she treated his wounds, not knowing it held no purpose. The smoothness of her whispering voice. Most of the men with him had families, people to long for and turn to once the war ended. All he had was her, the young nurse whose face brought him a heavenly sensation of peace.

There was no promise in the possibility of someone coming for them, but if they did, he would find such joy in seeing her face again.

"General, I'd like a word." Marcel follows the man in command onto the main base and for the first time, he actually breathes somewhat fresh air. The death wagon drives past him and the stench along with the blood gargling inside the dead bodies makes his decision much clearer.

"I know what you want soldier." Marcel watches as the General takes some folded papers from his pocket. "It's a shame to lose you, but it has been an honor to fight beside you." Lifting their hands to their foreheads, both men extend a gesture of appreciation.

Leaving the moment hovering in his head, Marcel makes his way to the tents.  The main base is far away from the fighting zones. It's where the seriously injured are brought to the infirmary. The tents are not far from the infirmary, but her shifts only end at five. It's been so long since he was close to her. At least now he has time to prepare.

"Is it true?" Her voice is suddenly behind him, like the wind rushing into his courtiers. He feels her presence in the room before he sees her- it's something so strong yet delicate, it suffocates him in the best possible way. "Marcel, are the rumors true?" He turns to face her and a shade of rose tints her cheeks, creating a picture of peaches and cream.