Animosity

Chapter 17 - Differences

Photo: A group of anxious US soldiers lie in wait in a small trench, a few of them peeking out of the top of the ridge.

—

I woke up slowly and groggily, opening one eye first, then the other. The white cloth of the tent was brightened by the brilliant sunlight shining down on the outpost from outside, and a corner of my pack came into view, blurry through my still hazy stare. The air was still, devoid of any wind, and I breathed in deeply, trying to blink the tiredness from my red-rimmed eyes.

        Shifting slightly from my spot lying on the scratchy cloth floor, I stifled a groan as a dull pain rocketed through my body, and I stuffed a corner of my sleeve into my mouth to keep from waking the man sleeping soundly next to me. Every inch of my small figure was sore, and I shook my head slightly, eyes wide with disbelief at the aching that encompassed my body.

        Looking down, I noticed with a sideways glance that Hank had fallen peacefully into a deep sleep, his broad chest rising and falling rhythmically with every breath. He had tugged his thin cotton blanket around him sometime during the night, curling up into a ball to try to ward off the biting breeze that had crept up on us in the dark. It had gotten cold, but I hardly noticed, occasionally waking up in a cool sweat and knocking back out just minutes afterwards. At the time, I was too exhausted to even care about the dipping temperature.

        We had both turned to face away from each other as we slept, and as I looked down at his tranquil face, expression untroubled as good dreams undoubtedly danced through his mind, I longed to reach out and wrap my arms around him. Now, though, I could sense that there was something in the air, something vastly different than the jubilation and freedom we had both felt last night, our cares stripped away as we let bottled-up emotions run wild. There was a sort of gray cloud hanging over the outpost, and I took a deep breath, scared of what he would do when he woke up.

        He had been drunk last night, a factor that definitely led to his impulsive actions, but I hoped that it was just a way for him to express his true feelings, his desires that otherwise, would never be communicated. There, sitting up groggily in the tent and gazing wistfully down at his peaceful expression, I hoped feverishly that he harbored the same feelings as last night, that he would leap to his feet and announce to the whole world that he loved Tom Descartes, he loved me. Letting out a quick, nervous breath of air, I struggled to get up, uttering a tiny, pained gasp.

        Moving as quietly and carefully as I could, I tucked the blanket a little more over his body before crawling to the flap of the tent, glancing behind my shoulder one more time before exiting the small cloth room. He shifted in his sleep and I froze, exhaling softly before getting to my feet in an agonizingly slow process. My thumb worked over the hook at the top of the flap, tugging the thing down and sealing it in my wake.

        The stream bubbled flatly from its spot next to us, ice-cold water flowing rapidly along the numerous chiseled stones at the bottom of the river. Occasionally they would shift under the pressure from the rushing tides, and it calmed my jumpy nerves a bit as I observed their natural little dance. Reaching a hand out, I ran it through the water, feeling the soft splash of the liquid against my trembling palm.

        The sun was dazzling overhead, but the beaming ball of fire was obscured by thick gray clouds moving directly in front of it, occasionally breaking up to reveal a glimpse of the perfect day it could've been. In those moments, rays of light shot out from the pale blue sky, encompassing the earth with sweet warmth. Now, however, a rigid, creeping fog had settled over the tops of the trees, beads of condensation rolling off of waxy leaves. It was a gray, drowsy day, and I strained to hear even the slightest call of a bird, the quietest hum of an insect.