Atomic Soul
Knight
- Local time
- Today 9:57 AM
- Messages
- 73
- Age
- 27
- Pronouns
- She/Her
He smells of sweat and body odor, and mud, like myself; and there are probably louses in his hair like there are louses in mine, and I imagine he hasn't had a bath in days the same way I haven't. His uniform probably has bloodstains clinging to the fibers, some very fresh and red, others older and darker. His hair is greasy and oily. Perhaps he at least washed his face; but even that is hardly worth the effort here, unless one is keen on shaving, which I myself am. And he is as well. Some civilian might say he smells bad. But I personally think that he smells like a man, a solider—a warrior.
The new sniper was allotted a cot for his night hours (or day hours—we sleep whenever we have a chance here), where I generally sleep on the hard dirt floor, or out in the trench beneath the stars, hoping I won't be stepped on or smashed by the shell of a howitzer that is positioned just so. It was only the natural thing to do that I push him over a bit and crawl in with him and his army blanket (anyone would if he's slept on the ground long enough), and while he struggled a bit and cursed me, he eventually became quiet—he is tired. He will be up before dawn to return to No Man's Land, where he will lie on his stomach all day, peering through the sight of his rifle, just as he did until dusk today. And of course, there is little room so we both lay on our sides with his back pressed into my chest. He is probably irritated at me, he is probably uncomfortable; we do not know each other, for he has only just been brought up to the front. He spends the majority of his time out in No Man's Land, waiting for German heads to peek up over the parapet so he can shoot them, day and night. I am usually in the company of my greater friends, playing cards or sleeping when I'm not on guard duty or going up on various fatigues.
Why do I abuse him this way? I would do such a thing to my friends, whom I have known my entire life. But to a stranger, it is uncommon. He is very short and very slight, he looks like a mere child compared to the rest of us who are rough and scarred and dark, and many have full beards. No doubt he is talented with his rifle—snipers are highly sought after, to challenge the Huns' own sharpshooters. He will prove himself in time. That is how the military is: soldiers can see past appearance if a man is good enough with a gun. If he will climb over the top with the rest of the boys and charge the enemy lines amidst gun- and shellfire, feminine appearance or not, he will be respected. But this one has not earned that place yet. Perhaps that is why—
perhaps my back is aching,
perhaps the star shells fall too close tonight,
And perhaps there is more motive than wanting to sleep on a cot instead of the ground; perhaps I do not want to sleep on the cot so much as I want to sleep with him, near him, it is two years into this war and even on leave I have had no comfort in the body of another individual, in the heart and eyes of another man, never in my life have I had this. The gnawing hunger isn't carnal; it is my heart that wants, not my stomach.
Everyone calls him a fairy. It's only natural that I immediately fly to him to like a moth to a flame—a moth that hasn't seen light as promising as his in far too long, perhaps its entire life. All this time I have been too afraid to approach just any man I fancy; I cannot tell which is afflicted by homosexuality and which is not. And perhaps he may be healthy, but homosexual romance is always better than risking the nasty sexually-transmitted diseases that run rampant in military brothels. But that is merely release, there is nothing emotional, nothing authentic, just a means to an end that eventually turns bitter and hateful. No, what I seek is something deeper, something in the way a solider exchanges love letters and poetry with his lover, a camaraderie that is a friendship and something deeper than a friendship and a love, something that can only exist between men, something so perfect I fear it cannot possibly exist. Or in this world, it is afraid to exist.
A lamp burns in one corner, light enough for a group of four men to play cards by. With the sun long down, Very lights illuminate the sky in various colors like some sort of fairy tea party. Except the Huns are still firing away at us with their heavy artillery, which thunders overhead, muffled slightly because we are underground in our concrete bunker. Through it all, he is quiet and still—I assume he has fallen asleep. (A solider can fall asleep almost anywhere, and in any situation.) But I am very awake. It is not the bursting of star shells or fireworks that keeps me from sleep, nor the loud laughter and cursing of the card-players; and the rumbling of our bunker, which at times shudders as shells come down too close, does not keep my mind from drifting away from this place and into either darkness or nightmares. It is, instead, the man at my side. Though the heat of August is nearly stifling, I find his own heat somewhat of a comfort, a luxury. And that I know nothing of him is good: if I could simply have this moment, get it all over with, perhaps I would never need another again. It is not him as a person that I desire, simply he as a man, nameless and faceless and asleep. Maybe then I can be cured.
Slowly, beneath the heavy blanket, I raise my hand and touch it quite gently to his waist—covered, of course, by the fabric of his uniform. My fingers skim over his hip, lingering on his abdomen, his chest, where I carefully press my palm over his heart. I long to run my fingers through his hair, greasy and infested with louses as it may be, but am far too fascinated by the beating of his heart beneath his shirt and beneath my fingers. It radiates life beneath my hand, much the way my own heart is fluttering—funny how our hearts are so very different, how we as men are separated by such a chasm.
This is what I have been reduced to: seeking comfort from a man who I believe is asleep. It is not enough; in fact it is rather upsetting, sinking this low. In the twenty-one years up until this moment, I have maintained control, I have acted the way I ought to. I have done a very fine job. I felt as though if I could stay in the role of a normal man long enough, I might be able to remold myself into one. The logic was there. They have therapies and treatments for these things, it can be reversed surely. But here I've gone and ruined it all, all my twenty-one years of repressed feelings and confusion in living with this disease, all in one moment of weakness.
Perhaps it has not been one moment. Throughout my entire life my resolve has slowly been diminishing. And now it is the recklessness of life come upon me now in my hours of death, my heart aching so desperately that I am compelled to appease it at any cost—at the cost of friendship, the cost of my freedom, the cost of destroying a façade that I have spent a lifetime building. Perhaps even my dignity. And now, all I want is for him to reach his own hand up and cover mine, a secret message of understanding, perhaps of mutual want. But I imagine this will end with him pushing me out of his cot and shouting for a commanding officer, and I will be court-martialed for sexual deviancy, and probably sent to prison for the customary fifteen years. What am I doing? My head whirls with questions, searching for some explanation, begging my heart for an answer—but it has none. It has always had none for me. Reconciling this illness, it has been impossible when I cannot know why these feelings are, where they stem from. Perhaps if I could find the answers I could stop these abnormal desires. But alas, love is such a mystery that even science cannot explain it. Perhaps the doctors say they have the answer, the cure, but in this moment I am skeptical—why would I want to cure such desire, such pain? Who ever wanted to cure love? But it is wrong. And I am left, once more, confused and guilty and damned.
Leaning close, I touch my lips to the back of his neck. I know I have gone too far—too far, much too far, I am crossing boundaries I have never dared imagine I would surpass. It is about false hope: I have seen it destroy men. And surely it would destroy me, too. No, best put those fantasies away where they belong—deep, deep down, locked away where they can't hurt anyone, me nor anyone else. And I would simply never marry and never have children; God forbid I passed this horrible disease to them. No. If necessary, I would simply have to end my life to save others from me, and that was all very good and well—another adventure. The thought only appeared in my very darkest hours, and I needn't worry about it now, for it may very well come for me at any second.
The new sniper was allotted a cot for his night hours (or day hours—we sleep whenever we have a chance here), where I generally sleep on the hard dirt floor, or out in the trench beneath the stars, hoping I won't be stepped on or smashed by the shell of a howitzer that is positioned just so. It was only the natural thing to do that I push him over a bit and crawl in with him and his army blanket (anyone would if he's slept on the ground long enough), and while he struggled a bit and cursed me, he eventually became quiet—he is tired. He will be up before dawn to return to No Man's Land, where he will lie on his stomach all day, peering through the sight of his rifle, just as he did until dusk today. And of course, there is little room so we both lay on our sides with his back pressed into my chest. He is probably irritated at me, he is probably uncomfortable; we do not know each other, for he has only just been brought up to the front. He spends the majority of his time out in No Man's Land, waiting for German heads to peek up over the parapet so he can shoot them, day and night. I am usually in the company of my greater friends, playing cards or sleeping when I'm not on guard duty or going up on various fatigues.
Why do I abuse him this way? I would do such a thing to my friends, whom I have known my entire life. But to a stranger, it is uncommon. He is very short and very slight, he looks like a mere child compared to the rest of us who are rough and scarred and dark, and many have full beards. No doubt he is talented with his rifle—snipers are highly sought after, to challenge the Huns' own sharpshooters. He will prove himself in time. That is how the military is: soldiers can see past appearance if a man is good enough with a gun. If he will climb over the top with the rest of the boys and charge the enemy lines amidst gun- and shellfire, feminine appearance or not, he will be respected. But this one has not earned that place yet. Perhaps that is why—
perhaps my back is aching,
perhaps I do not want to sleep with the rats again,
perhaps the duckboards are too hard,
perhaps the star shells fall too close tonight,
perhaps
perhaps...
And perhaps there is more motive than wanting to sleep on a cot instead of the ground; perhaps I do not want to sleep on the cot so much as I want to sleep with him, near him, it is two years into this war and even on leave I have had no comfort in the body of another individual, in the heart and eyes of another man, never in my life have I had this. The gnawing hunger isn't carnal; it is my heart that wants, not my stomach.
Everyone calls him a fairy. It's only natural that I immediately fly to him to like a moth to a flame—a moth that hasn't seen light as promising as his in far too long, perhaps its entire life. All this time I have been too afraid to approach just any man I fancy; I cannot tell which is afflicted by homosexuality and which is not. And perhaps he may be healthy, but homosexual romance is always better than risking the nasty sexually-transmitted diseases that run rampant in military brothels. But that is merely release, there is nothing emotional, nothing authentic, just a means to an end that eventually turns bitter and hateful. No, what I seek is something deeper, something in the way a solider exchanges love letters and poetry with his lover, a camaraderie that is a friendship and something deeper than a friendship and a love, something that can only exist between men, something so perfect I fear it cannot possibly exist. Or in this world, it is afraid to exist.
A lamp burns in one corner, light enough for a group of four men to play cards by. With the sun long down, Very lights illuminate the sky in various colors like some sort of fairy tea party. Except the Huns are still firing away at us with their heavy artillery, which thunders overhead, muffled slightly because we are underground in our concrete bunker. Through it all, he is quiet and still—I assume he has fallen asleep. (A solider can fall asleep almost anywhere, and in any situation.) But I am very awake. It is not the bursting of star shells or fireworks that keeps me from sleep, nor the loud laughter and cursing of the card-players; and the rumbling of our bunker, which at times shudders as shells come down too close, does not keep my mind from drifting away from this place and into either darkness or nightmares. It is, instead, the man at my side. Though the heat of August is nearly stifling, I find his own heat somewhat of a comfort, a luxury. And that I know nothing of him is good: if I could simply have this moment, get it all over with, perhaps I would never need another again. It is not him as a person that I desire, simply he as a man, nameless and faceless and asleep. Maybe then I can be cured.
Slowly, beneath the heavy blanket, I raise my hand and touch it quite gently to his waist—covered, of course, by the fabric of his uniform. My fingers skim over his hip, lingering on his abdomen, his chest, where I carefully press my palm over his heart. I long to run my fingers through his hair, greasy and infested with louses as it may be, but am far too fascinated by the beating of his heart beneath his shirt and beneath my fingers. It radiates life beneath my hand, much the way my own heart is fluttering—funny how our hearts are so very different, how we as men are separated by such a chasm.
This is what I have been reduced to: seeking comfort from a man who I believe is asleep. It is not enough; in fact it is rather upsetting, sinking this low. In the twenty-one years up until this moment, I have maintained control, I have acted the way I ought to. I have done a very fine job. I felt as though if I could stay in the role of a normal man long enough, I might be able to remold myself into one. The logic was there. They have therapies and treatments for these things, it can be reversed surely. But here I've gone and ruined it all, all my twenty-one years of repressed feelings and confusion in living with this disease, all in one moment of weakness.
Perhaps it has not been one moment. Throughout my entire life my resolve has slowly been diminishing. And now it is the recklessness of life come upon me now in my hours of death, my heart aching so desperately that I am compelled to appease it at any cost—at the cost of friendship, the cost of my freedom, the cost of destroying a façade that I have spent a lifetime building. Perhaps even my dignity. And now, all I want is for him to reach his own hand up and cover mine, a secret message of understanding, perhaps of mutual want. But I imagine this will end with him pushing me out of his cot and shouting for a commanding officer, and I will be court-martialed for sexual deviancy, and probably sent to prison for the customary fifteen years. What am I doing? My head whirls with questions, searching for some explanation, begging my heart for an answer—but it has none. It has always had none for me. Reconciling this illness, it has been impossible when I cannot know why these feelings are, where they stem from. Perhaps if I could find the answers I could stop these abnormal desires. But alas, love is such a mystery that even science cannot explain it. Perhaps the doctors say they have the answer, the cure, but in this moment I am skeptical—why would I want to cure such desire, such pain? Who ever wanted to cure love? But it is wrong. And I am left, once more, confused and guilty and damned.
Leaning close, I touch my lips to the back of his neck. I know I have gone too far—too far, much too far, I am crossing boundaries I have never dared imagine I would surpass. It is about false hope: I have seen it destroy men. And surely it would destroy me, too. No, best put those fantasies away where they belong—deep, deep down, locked away where they can't hurt anyone, me nor anyone else. And I would simply never marry and never have children; God forbid I passed this horrible disease to them. No. If necessary, I would simply have to end my life to save others from me, and that was all very good and well—another adventure. The thought only appeared in my very darkest hours, and I needn't worry about it now, for it may very well come for me at any second.
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