Troyler short stories

blind faith

tw/ war (this is a very spontaneous little oneshot I couldn't help writing after watching the Testament of youth! it may be in a war context but it's supposed to be sweet and I hope you enjoy (will be a part 2) xxx)

Plants tower towards the glass ceiling of the conservatory, dripping in large green leaves, vibrant and full of life. Beneath them are the wicker chairs and sofas neatly placed around the room, facing chessboards or radios or turned to look out to the garden. There are men on these chairs, though they are slumped, unmoving, and tend to stare at the ground.

This is the only room where if you close your eyes you can imagine the world two years ago. It smells of fresh air, sounds of the gently brushing leaves and birds in the garden. Even with your eyes open you can imagine for a moment that these are normal men, the normal patients that used to come out here to feel the sunshine. Figures in dressing gowns, a bandage here and there, a wheelchair or two. Varying degrees of hopefulness. But then you look closer, see that these aren't just men, but rather boys, that most have soft skin only just dirtied and aged, eyes only just empty of light. They are the cavernous bodies of war, stripped of youth, of character, only alive by the thin flesh that coats their feeble hearts.

I've never been a stranger to death. My dad, an acclaimed doctor, my mother, a nurse, I've grown up knowing life could be fleeting. I began my training, keen to help, to encourage some joy even in those facing their final hours. And then the war began. The wards filled up past their capacity. I became surrounded by men my own age, my duty at the front line only excused because my skills were more valuable. I'd work all day and come back to my childhood mirror to see my own face seemingly aged, my own eyes draining of light. Every wound, every amputated limb, every death caused by war, I knew to be in vain. I couldn't find the joy anymore, though I searched the same. I'd comfort each patient like I believed in the heaven and humanity I used to.

Now, tending to the soldier I'd operated on earlier, I try to smile at the flowers by his bedside. A small bouquet of wildflowers, only just fading to brown at the edges. From his mother, or friend, or wife, whoever it was called 'Daisy', the name he'd been mumbling ever since he arrived.

"D-D-" he whispers now as I mop his brow, checking on the stitching I'd done on him earlier. His left arm, from the elbow down.

"She loves you," I say, drawing up his blankets. "She sent you flowers."

"Da-daisy..."

"She loves you," I affirm, stroking back his hair when he frowns restlessly in his slumber. My father would disapprove of such actions, would say to leave such comforting to the nurse, but I've never been able to resist.

"Here," I whisper, picking one of the daisies from the bouquet. Leaning over, I place it softly in his right hand, which was shivering just slightly. "Daisy is with you."

As the flower settles in his palm, the soldier stiffens, then relaxes. His fingers twitch and his lips part.

"John, Daisy's with you," I whisper quieter, easing myself from the mattress.

As I stand, I watch the tension leave John's brow. His mouth moves as if to say her name again, but instead sleep seems to have found him.

I like to know their names. But in doing so my mother says I impart more and more weight to my shoulders.

"Troye? Is that you?"

Turning, I see nurse Alice leaning out from behind a drawn curtain. Nineteen, a plucky girl from a poor family, few skills but determined to be useful.

"Would you take over for me here, if you have a moment? I fear I've forgotten something rather important elsewhere."

Smiling, I nod my compliance.