Short Stories

The Last Letter

By Reghan Libby

Heart pounding. Foggy vision. Head aching. Beads of sweat running down my forehead. My hands tremble as I reach down to my feet and pick up the black ball point pen that had slipped between my clammy fingertips. As I cower in the darkest, deepest corner of the trenches, it starts to feel as it my heart was going to jump out of my throat. Through blurry eyes, I look down the damaged post card that I had pulled out of my pocket and laid on my muddy knee. The sound of gun shots, and pained whimpers echo through my ears, causing me to take in a slow, deep breath and close my eyes for just a moment. That has been my main coping mechanism during the war. While my heart and mind are racing, I try to tell myself that I am not scared for nothing. I am scared that if I, in fact, am not scared, that this war has changed me. I speak my mind through the letters I send home, hoping that if I continue to speak of my pain and fear, it will help me hold onto the humanity that is slowly trying to free itself from my grasp everyday.

"Jessica," I wrote quickly, looking up and around. I could hear the rats scurrying around the trenches, which wasn't very shocking to me. The trenches were smelly and muddy, but I got use to it. I got use to then dead bodies stacked and buried all around, and the fact that the sewage from the latrines leaked into the ditches. "Earlier today I had a fight against a rat that was bigger that Lionel" (the cat) I scribbled down my first sentence, before falling back onto my behind. I felt a little safer as I hunkered into the damp soil of the hole. "I miss you, yanno? Each day feels as if its dragging on for a longer amount of time. I hope the war is over soon. I am trying to hold out until the end, but I can feel myself losing small pieces that before this all, made me, me." I let a single tear run down my cheek, and drip down onto the letter, and watch as the droplet started fading out into a tiny mandala of depression and hurt. I pressed the tip of the pen down onto the thin card, before pulling myself out of my daze, to continue writing. "I miss your warm, home cooked meals and our warm bed. I often find myself thinking about your homemade pulled pork and gravy while I am eating the usual sloppy meat stew here."

The sound of an excruciating cry haul my attention away from the letter, and my eyes shoot to the edge of the trenches. A fellow soldier had been shot, and fell into a puddle of muddy, rain water. I want to go see if he is okay, but I can't bring myself to parade over to the potentially lifeless body. I just look down at my crummy combat boots, and turn my back on him. Searching for a safe haven, I drag myself deeper into the trenches, until I cannot see anything. Feeling around in my pocket, I hurriedly find the small flashlight that I kept on me. Although I can rarely use it, it's quite helpful when I am alone. I raise my hand to write once again.

"Do you want to hear a funny story? Last night, when we were walking to the trenches, it was already dark, and we weren't aloud to have any sources of light on, so I couldn't see anything. I fell over at least 20 times, and got covered in mud. AND, to top it all off, my clothing was already soaked from the rain. So, I was muddy and sticky. Worst feeling ever." I shift my weight onto my right leg, and tap the end of the pen against my chin. I scrawl another sentence down. "We got there at around 7, and were shelled at 9." Now, the last sentence. "I love you, Jessica. I'll be home before you know it. See you and Miya soon. Much love, Alexander."

Little did I know, I was not going to make it home... and my family would never see me again.