Animosity

Chapter 20 - Deserved It

Photo: A group of American soldiers carefully lower their wounded friend onto the ground.

—

Devy woke up slowly, bringing his hands up groggily to rub at his eyes, wincing when a dull, biting pain rocketed it's way through his leg. The tent that he was lying in was warm, light from outside spilling in through the cloth walls, brightening the makeshift bed that was underneath him. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his calf, and it throbbed with every breath he took, a sharp, fiery sensation. A blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and he sighed softly, wanting to curl back up in it and fall asleep all over again.

The morning was quiet, nothing but a gentle bird's call disturbing the peace of silence. Devy didn't remember how he got here, collapsed in the tent, but he did remember the shooting, the explosions, the intense, maddening pain that had dispersed throughout his entire body. The panic attack that he had while pinned to the ground, the feeling of a knife slicing through his skin. He shuddered, bringing trembling fingers out to brush over the bandage, sucking in a breath of air in surprise as he made contact with the paper wrappings. It hurt so much more than he anticipated.

Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. He was supposed to be out of Vietnam by now, on a boat back home, running up the pier and wrapping his sturdy arms around his lady. Greeting his mother, cursing out his father, reacquainting himself with old friends from past lives. After the first time he got hurt, he was certain that they'd ship him out with a pat on the back and a one way ticket back to America, like he'd seen so many other wounded soldiers get, but there was nothing. He was still fit to fight, they had confirmed with a sneaky tone and devilish eyes, Private Michael Devayae was well enough to die a little more.

And now, laying stiffly on the floor of the tent, his long, curly hair falling over his face, he knew once again that there'd be no escaping. He'd have to get up, get tough, and finish the mission, whether or not his leg was worn down to nothing but strained muscle. Groaning lowly under his breath, willing himself not to scream in frustration, he rolled over, struggling to sit up. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called out, shocked at how weak and raspy his voice sounded.

"Doc..? You there?" Came the words, quiet and softer than usual. It was unlike him, to speak so gently, but he almost couldn't bring himself to yell any louder without his voice trembling.

"Doc?"

—

"Hey, Doc, c'n you hear me..?"

I stood with my back to the tent, leaning against a nearby tree, the bark rough and knotted as it pressed into my shoulder. The sun was high in the sky, it was almost noon, and thick, puffy clouds raced past overhead, seemingly waving as they cast long shadows on the ground. We had picked a good place to camp last night, halfway between the fields and the jungle, secluded with a river just half a mile away. The others had all traveled there earlier, putting me in charge of the man in the tent. My hand was curled into a fist near my face, knuckles running absentmindedly over my lips, and upon hearing Devy's hesitant calls, I turned around quickly.

Pushing open the white cloth flap of the tent, I let out a shaky breath of air when I saw his face fall. He looked tired, pale, and from where I stood, I could tell that most of his body was trembling lightly, eyes rimmed with red. My gaze traveled down to his injured leg, taking in the swathes of bandages that were wrapped over it, remembering the blood that had seeped through each layer. Clearing my throat, I opened my mouth to speak, but he folded his arms across his chest and let out a few snarky words before I could.

"Oh, it's just you." He spat, rolling his eyes coldly.

"Yeah, it's me, Devy." I replied flatly, sighing, not in the mood to deal with his bullshit. Running a hand through my knotted hair, I glared down at him with a smoldering, ocean-like stare, daring him to continue on his tirade. "Did you need something?"