I feel nothing. Not one damn thing. I was more enticed by a single drag of Rainey’s fingernail against my palm than this kiss. It’s no use. This was all for nothing.
Before the kiss can go any further, I pull away, curling my fingers around her forearms. Georgina’s eyes are still shut, and her mouth’s pursed together. When she realizes my lips are no longer on hers, she looks at me with confusion.
I extend my arms over my head and dramatically yawn. “It’s late.”
She arches a brow and leans in. “I know.”
This one is not going to make things easy.
“I have business to attend to early in the mornin’.” Slapping my hands against my knees, I stand and hold a hand out for her to take. She’s temporarily aghast at my polite yet firm rejection. With flushed cheeks, she slowly stands, accepting my hand. She agrees she must be leaving, and how we must do this again, and at the front door, she leans in one last time. I oblige, giving her a long, deep kiss.
Still nothing.
“Livingston, we must never go this long without seein’ each other, all right?” she breathes.
Nodding just to get her to leave, I’m delighted when she hails a cab. I close the door, and heavily sag against it. Dragging my hands through my hair, I stare at the floor. I’m positively certain that if I go outside and ask Georgina to come back in, she will.
I have no desire to.
Pushing away from the wall, I walk to the sitting room and pour myself another drink. I drop down into one of the chairs and stare blankly at the wall across from me. I don’t know what I’m turning into. Before the war, I didn’t have nightmares and nearly drank myself into oblivion. And before Rainey, I could freely be with other women without the image of her haunting me.
My circumstances with Rainey would eventually change. There would be a solution to her problem, and I would see her less. And my nightmares would slowly become distant memories. I’d drink less to forget and more out of remembrance.
Until then, all I need to remember is that sooner than we know, every after becomes a before.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Livingston
The smell of soot and gunpowder wafts into the air, intertwining with the rancid scent of sweat and dead bodies. The combination can make your eyes fill with tears and your stomach churn.
I lay on the cool ground, staring up at the sky. Clouds cover the sun. I can’t think of the last time I saw the sunshine. It seems as though even the sun is reluctant to enter No Man’s Land. I have only my fellow soldiers and the animals in the thicket of trees not far from me for company. But no one is making a sound.
My ears still ring from consecutive gunfire. All at once, it seemed to cease. I blindly reach for my Chauchat and find it near my right hip. Slowly, I sit up and see I’m in a dirty field with bodies all around me. Some move, others don’t.
My breathing increases as I come to sit up on knees and search the faces around me. I don’t recognize the lifeless bodies. I stand, my shoulders rigid and my rifle clutched between my hands.
Somewhere close by, a man gasps for air. It’s a sound that cannot be disregarded no matter how fearful one is to move. Cautiously, I step forward. There’s a heavy fog that seems to be closing in around me as the seconds tick by. I don’t know which direction I should go. The ground is so frozen, the grass crunches beneath my worn boots as I walk forward. I look at the bodies in search of anyone who still might be alive.
I seem to walk for miles without encountering a single living soul.
Why am I still alive?
The question echoes in my head as I keep walking through the empty field. I look down at one of the bodies lying on the ground and see the face of Rainey’s father, Malcolm. I stop so quickly my boots slip on the mud, and I almost fall forward. He’s nothing of what he used to be. There’s no laughter causing his stomach to rumble, or a well-timed wisecrack pouring from his mouth.
Swallowing, I take several steps backward before I turn around. I can’t get away from the sight of his corpse and the smell of decay quick enough.
I stumble forward, my legs wobbling beneath me. I should stop and take a deep breath, but I’m afraid if I do, I might turn around and see the image of Miles and Rainey’s dad. So I continue. I wish I didn’t. I wish I had stopped and looked anywhere but to my left. Because it’s there that I see my father lying next to my mom. My younger brother, Julian, right next to them. It’s then my breathing becomes choppy. I don’t come any closer, but I’m afraid to leave them. I should because this is wrong and morbid. I still remember the day they were buried. I couldn’t bear to look then, so perhaps that’s why I can’t tear my eyes away now.
My heart feels as though it’s stuck in my throat. I don’t know whether to cry out in fear or muster the courage to speak.
When you lose someone, you think of what you’d say to them if you saw them one more time.
“Pourquoi es-tu mort?”
No one answers me.
Words felt from the heart can hurt just as badly spoken aloud. They disappear into the fog that surrounds me, but the remnants of them still linger and cling to the earth around me.
The sights and smells make my eyes water. I turn in every direction, trying to find a way toward safety.
As I continue walking, I look at each body I pass. I don’t want to. I’m terrified of what I might see.
I pass by a wounded soldier and immediately stop. Because the wounded soldier is Miles Pleasonton. He lays on the ground with a single gunshot in his upper chest. The material of his uniform absorbs the blood, creating a circular pattern. And on his right hand, blood coats his fingertips, forming a small story of the seconds after he was shot. On impact, he fell to the ground. He feels pain, but shock controls his movements. He lifts a hand to the wound, believing the touch will stop the heavy bleeding, but nothing could’ve saved him from the fatal shot.
“Pleas?” I whisper.
As I bend down, his eye sockets became endless black holes. And his skin begins to eat away around his mouth until all I can see are his teeth and gums.
Rats crawl out of his eyes. The same ones that lived in the trenches and they’re coming toward me. Ready to attack me, eat my eyes, and—
In one giant rush, I sit up, clutching my bedsheets as though I’m a little boy. Frantically, I look around my room. It’s silent and safe. But I don’t feel safe.
I drag my hands through my hair and squeeze my eyes shut. It’s my own damn fault for believing I could fall asleep without the past chasing after me.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I walk across my room and to the armoire. Even in the pitch black, I know precisely where my liquor is located. The second my fingers curl around the bottle, some of the panic I feel subsides.
I twist the top off and let it fall to the floor. The first and second drink burn as it travels down my throat, but it becomes tolerable by the third and fourth.
Lowering the bottle from my lips, I look over my shoulder at my bed. Georgina not staying tonight turned out to be the best decision. Never thought I’d see the day where I’d be relieved not to have a woman in my bed, but it’s better than having her witness my nightmare. Can I call what I experienced a nightmare? It felt merciless in its details and unfeeling in its delivery.