The Colour of War

Chapter 20

Dust filled Evelyn's lungs as she lay pinned beneath the rubble. With each laboured breath, the heavy beam across her chest seemed to press down harder, squeezing the air out of her crushed ribcage. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and for a moment she surrendered to its call, letting her eyelids flutter shut.

"Help... the child," she gasped, her voice coarse.

A shadow towered over her, and through burning eyes, she saw silhouettes moving quickly. Hands tried to lift the debris; their efforts futile against the devastation. One of the figures shook their head, and a distant voice reached her ears.

"It's too late."

Those words swirled in her mind as Evelyn finally succumbed, her eyes closing as she drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

The sounds of suffering jolted Evelyn awake. The sharp scent of antiseptic mingled with blood and the groans of the wounded. She blinked several times, trying to clear the fog in her mind. The hospital ward was filled with anguish; beds and makeshift cots lined the room, occupied by soldiers and civilians alike, none spared by war's cruel hand.

Her gaze fixed on a man nearby, his face contorted in agony, his screams piercing the air. The remnants of his left leg ended abruptly below the knee, jagged and raw. Stomach churning, Evelyn turned away, bile rising in her throat.

"Did I come with anyone?" she asked a passing nurse, a young woman whose eyes reflected the weariness of the never-ending toil.

"I don't know," the nurse replied, distracted. "Cologne has been attacked. Many like you arrived. Too many." With no further explanation, she hurried off to tend to a woman whose face was half-concealed by bandages, one eye lost to a fate untold.

Night fell, but the cries did not dwindle. Evelyn lay there, her own wounds throbbing in time with her heartbeat. The same nurse returned, her step less hurried now, though fatigue still lingered in her movements. With practiced hands, she changed Evelyn's dressing, her touch gentle despite the haste.

"Another with your name's been brought in," she said, her voice low.

"Who is she? Describe her to me please," Evelyn pressed, with both hope and dread.

"Older woman. Brown hair, starting to grey. Strong features. Took it hard when they told her..."

"Mother," Evelyn breathed, recognising the woman in the nurse's description. She fought back tears, clutching the thin hospital sheets. As the nurse moved on, Evelyn lay back, staring up at the ceiling. She would find her mother. She had to.

"Rest," the nurse insisted, her eyes kind yet weary from seeing too much suffering. "Your mother—well, just be ready."

Evelyn nodded mutely, the dread within her stirring her insides until she was sick, heaving into the provided basin. Just then, a commotion at the entrance drew her attention—a young woman on a gurney, vibrant despite the white bandage encircling her arm.

"Looks like she needs you more than I do," the newcomer quipped to the nurses.

Evelyn couldn't help but marvel at the stranger's levity. "How can you joke at a time like this?" she asked, her voice shaky.

"Because laughing beats crying, and honey, I've cried an ocean," the woman replied. She extended her bandaged arm slightly. "Shrapnel. A window exploded nearby. But hey, they say scars add character."

"Brigs," she offered when Evelyn asked her name after a short exchange, brushing off her real name. "Never did feel like a Brigitta."

"Nice to meet you, Brigs," Evelyn said with a quick farewell to her impromptu friend.