Dear Rosa,
One year, six months, and eighteen days have passed in this hellhole. Half of my squad is dead. I think about ending it myself. But you keep me going.
I miss you so much.
By the time you get this, I will be dead. Keep me in your heart so I may always be with you.
I love you more than you can imagine.
Sincerely,
Mike Schrödinger
I wrote that three days before the war ended. When they found us, it was just Rage, Jury-Rigged, Recoil, myself, and Blade's knife. We all looked worse for wear.
We were shipped home a week later after being checked for any major wounds. Other than me missing my left hand, no one was injured. They would soon realize their mistake, for I also had a case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder that had manifested into a split personality.
I didn't pay it much heed. Maybe I should have.
September 9th, 1945
All I wanted to do was see my girl, Rosa Amsel (if only I knew how much that last name would haunt me).
God, Rosa was beautiful. She had blonde hair and striking blue eyes. In 1935, she and her parents moved from Germany to the house next door. I took a liking to her right away.
She was a year older than me, but I didn't care. I loved her. I helped her learn English for three years just so I could see her. When she was sixteen, she was raped. Her parents pretty much disowned her, so she moved in with me and my family. I was dead (pardon my choice of words) set on marrying her when I got back. But after what I went through in that place, all I wanted to do was hold her close and never let her go.
She didn't want me to go in the first place.
