Fireflies | √

III

December 1914,
In the trenches.

In the midst of the war, a young man stood in the frontline of the battlefield. It was Christmas, and he celebrated it with gunshots and shells came flying towards him, but he braved through them all. In his mind, there was only one thing: his family. By hook or by crook, he need to survive the war and then return home to his wife and children.

In front of his eyes, there were only dust, smoke, and human flesh splattering everywhere. But at the back of his eyes, he could see the loving eyes of his blonde wife and the jovial smile of his children - a girl of seven, and two boys of three and one month old respectively.

He marched and ran towards his opponents, ready to kill them all for the sake of victory. But his intention backfired, and down to the earth he slumped as blood poured out from his chest and head. He was a German soldier, supposedly to die with pride. But there he was, lying dead and probably nameless with a wife and three children waiting at home. The war's far from over, and yet so many had died.

William Libredock saw this episode repeating itself over and over again, and soon he began to see what war truly was. What is the purpose of killing one another? Enemy or not, everyone deserves to live. But here they are, fighting against each other for some cause and killing one another. War, he realized, is dehumanizing. It makes people lose their sanity and rationality, making for these people dignities lower than animals. It is sad. But what can he do? He had no power to stop the war; only the leaders of the nations can.

William prepared for another blow. Another shell was thrown, and William survived the blow. But the next second, his right shoulder throbbed in agony.

Gunshot.

~

January 1915,
Libredock Estate.

The telegram stating that William was shot in the shoulder came in, and the next day he was here, resting due to his wounds. It was wonderful having him here again so we didn't complain about having to tend to his wounds every now and then, and feeding him.

The weeks he spent here resting were filled with his stories regarding the warfare and his experience. He missed Christmas, so father demanded that a fruitcake be baked and given to William. William told us about the sheer horrors of war, and exposed the truth behind it. How dehumanizing it is! War is useless, war is bad, and war is the devil's game.

When spring came, William had nearly recovered fully. He insisted on going out instead of rotting at home, so I took him on a walk around the market one Sunday morning after church service.

"I miss inhaling the fresh air of sweet fruits and seeing the bright colors of products here. It's so dull and hazardous in the battlefield," he said with a genuine smile plastered on his face.

"Best enjoy it while you can," I said with a grin.

"Can we stop by at Tiffany's for some croissants? I miss her croissants, they're so good," he pleaded, and of course I wouldn't say no.

Tiffany's was a small bakery situated at the west end of the market. The owner, as you could guess, was Mdm. Tiffany, who was married to a kind and respected gentleman named Mr. Jordan. They had two children together, a twin. Over the years, her hair became whiter and whiter and her face almost wrinkly, but she still looked young with that bright smile of hers.

William and I used to go to her bakery and we would buy a croissant each. Even after all these years, she would still recognize us and she still did as William and I pushed the door to her bakery.

"William, Elizabeth! It has been a while! How are you both?" she greeted us, with her signature smile on her face.

"All's well, except for William here. He got shot in the shoulder nearly two months ago," I said.

"War and all that," he continued.

"You poor boy!" Mdm. Tiffany exclaimed.

We chatted for a while, before buying what we usually buy all these years. Delicious, fluffy and flaky croissants at Tiffany's.

It was a day well spent, and it's nice having William back. At least, I'm not so lonely anymore.

But not for long.