Fighting For Love

XV - Hung By A Thread

Hey, guys

I am so sorry so sorry, I know I should've posted earlier, the chapter was already written and stuff, but I just forgot about it, I was certain it had passed a week at max, but now I see it has been 11 days!! I am so sorry, I'll try and be more careful about it next time.

Anyway, here's the chapter, enjoy!

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Chapter 15: Hung By A Thread

June 14th, 1940 - 15:00

Reims, France

The trip to Reims took no longer than two hours, but it seemed like it had lasted three decades, at least. Otto did not say a word, his eyes did not open and he did not move. All he did was breathe, which is better than nothing at all and the only thing that showed me he was alive.

"When are we getting to Reims?" Asked Doctor Acker to the driver during one of many tense moments we spent in that truck. The driver mumbled something in response, which only made Acker more furious. "Floor it, then! I am not losing another patient!"

"How long?" I asked him.

"No less than an hour."

"How long will he survive?" I corrected. Acker did not answer me, but the look in his eyes was not a good sign. "Shit."

"He is losing too much blood and, for all we know, the bullet is still inside. It could be going further in; it might have even hit his lungs already. The road is bumpy, which is far from ideal." I shook my head. It's all my fault. "In these conditions, I wouldn't give him much more than an hour."

"Which is how long it takes for us to get to Reims," I sated. "Isn' it?"

Doctor Acker did not answer. I took my eyes off him and looked at Otto, caressing his hair with my left hand as I pressed on the wound with my right one.

"Don't die," I whispered. "I cannot live without you."

One hour and a half later, I found myself carrying Otto into the only hospital in Reims. Acker, who accompanied me, said some words in French to the nurses there and Otto was quickly taken away.

"He must be operated. Now," he said, before leaving me behind.

I sat on one of the few empty seats in the front hall of the hospital and stared at the clock, with its endless minutes and hours. To distract me, I started looking around, trying to recognize the place I was in.

St. Dennis Hospital belonged to an order of Benedictine monks, whose monastery and school were also adjoined to the building. Apart from the name, however, one could never guess it was a Catholic hospital. It lacked crosses, chaplets, statuettes and all the other Catholic paraphernalia.

Had the times been other, I am sure this would be a clean and neat hospital; one that would be a role model to other hospitals in the area; but the times are not other: it's wartime, so it was only natural that the hospital would replicate that. And so it did. It was crowded. Actually, crowded is an understatement: it was filled to the top and overflowing.

New patients arrived at all times and their reasons to be there were various: broken bones, burns, blindness caused by glass shards, pulmonary problems caused by inhalation of smoke, gunshots, like Otto, and even ordinary matters, such as headaches, sore throats, bellyaches, muscular pains, colds and everyday cuts. These patients were either constantly rescheduled for later or not accepted at all. It was hell.

One of the nurses who were with us earlier, the one who wasn't Herta, sat by my side. I glanced at her, faking a smile.

"He's going to be fine, the doctors are taking good care of him," she said, smiling.