My Dear Laurens (Lams)

J. Laurens

It was barely a battle.

A gun fired. He rode his horse, and now he fell. He landed in mud, courtesy of a summer's rain. He still didn't feel the bullet, and he wondered why. He felt his side. He pulled his hand away from where he suspected he was wounded and saw blood. Maybe this is what karma is.

He peeled his soldier's coat off his body, crushed it into what just might save him, and pressed it against the entry wound. He lied on his back staring at the sky. It was blue and only blue. He tried to sit up because what good would it do to stay lying down. Well, maybe it would if he had paid attention to the medics when they briefed the soldiers on what to do in these situations. Situations like slow-deaths.

Despite any possible reasons to stay down, he sat up. He was the leader of his troops, so he had to keep fighting for them. The second he lifted his torso to an upright position, propping himself up with his right arm, he saw a man. A face he never wished to see again. Dirty blond ponytail, hooded, snake-like eyes, and a curled, hissing smile. Robert Grey. Robert Grey with a pistol in his hand, and a blue coat on his shoulders.

For a moment they stared at each other. No movement, just the look of shared hatred in their eyes. Laurens lurched forward, but blood loss slowed his attack just a hair, which was enough for Grey to use the butt of his gun to strike Laurens' head. Laurens was knocked out.

Laurens woke up to the bouncing of his head, and the rhythm of horse hooves. He opened his eyes and saw the chest of the horse and its legs galloping. Grey had thrown him over the front of the horse, and Grey was just behind him. He planned to make his next move, but he realized his eyes couldn't take the pressure of being open. He tried to maneuver to a sitting position, but he felt a hand on his back pushing him down, then another blow to the head.

The next time Laurens woke up all he saw was red. At first, he assumed he had died, and he must have been sent to hell. Then, the red moved. It became clear. Men in red. Men in red? Red coats. And one blue. He tried to lift his head, but it lolled to the side. Grey conversed with the redcoats. His smile was there. It always would be, even when Laurens closed his eyes. He started to drift to sleep, but he felt a sharp pain in his side.

Oh yeah. I've been shot.

He dropped his head down to peer at the wound. He realized his coat was missing, but there was some sort of bandage keeping his life afloat. It must have been Grey. He was at the redcoats' camp, and Grey was talking to redcoats freely. They didn't seem to want to kill him; they almost seemed friends. Grey was handed a bag full of coin. Laurens couldn't tell how much, but he knew it was a hefty sum. Why?

For me. He's trading me. He's betraying his country for a bit of coin. And revenge.

Laurens didn't want to, but he felt himself fading again. This time, without the need of a heavy object, he fell asleep. Only for a minute or two, though. He was awoken by a slap to the face. His eyes snapped open, and there was Grey bending down so his face was mere inches from Laurens.

He leaned further so his nose brushed Laurens' hair above his ear. "You should have thought twice before killing my brother."

Then, Grey left. But not Grey. Or, he was, but he wasn't who Laurens thought he was. At the same time dread filled his gut, relief loosened his shoulders. Robert was still dead. A rainbow around every corner. Until another storm comes.

A redcoat wielding a knife came up to Laurens and started cutting. He never realized he was tied up. Once he was free of his bonds, the redcoat pushed him on the ground. Gruffly, he said, "Stand up, colonist. The war might be over, but we can still find some use for you yet."