Animosity

Chapter 22 - Hiro and I

        Photo: An American soldier performs CPR on a fallen companion.

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        A few days had passed, and we were waist deep into enemy territory. The comforting campfire that had cast a warm glow over each new clearing was gone, extinguished and winked out with a weary sigh. We couldn't let even the smallest of beacons draw the Viet Cong to our location, and with every sound, every breaking of a branch and crunch of a leaf, we became more and more on edge. It was nerve-wracking, exhausting, walking through the entire day and most of the night, paranoid about what could be around every corner. The only thing keeping me sane was Hank.

Hank, with his warm smile, his reassuring touch, his whispered words in my ear that made my heart flutter and my stomach coil into tiny knots. Our nightly trips to the outpost tent, our routine hushed conversation, the melting of our bodies into one. He somehow made me feel less afraid, less terrified of what the world outside our tiny cloth shelter had in store, and every time he was close to me, I felt a weight lift off of my shoulders like an overbearing stone.

No one had questioned our motives for always wanted to take the outpost except for Devy, and even then, the dark-haired man had merely pursed his lips frustratedly and made sharp remarks about our supposed friendship. I could tell he was jealous and apprehensive about how close that me and Hank were, even if he didn't know the half of it. In a way, I felt sorry for the injured man, his face contorted into a mask of pain with every step, staring with swimming eyes after his brunette best friend. He missed when Hank used to help him torment me, hated that we got along now, and I was slightly satisfied at his reaction.

Good, a part of me said haughtily, let him be angry. I was closer to his friend than he ever was, and in a way, it was almost like I stole him from Devy's grasp, whisking him up into my arms and carrying him in a firm grip. Let him be mad... he treated Hank like shit anyways.

Speaking of which, Devy healed up quite well, and despite still having trouble walking, could still keep up extremely well. Doc had grinned from ear to ear when venturing out into the nearby, thick forest to cut down a branch in order to bind a crutch together.

"I have to pay you back somehow," the blonde, bespectacled man beamed, face falling when his cold companion snatched it from his hands silently before limping away. The exchange, mutually witnessed by the rest of the detachment, made me indescribably angry, and I had shouldered past Devy, causing him to stumble sideways and curse under his breath. Doc, a genuine, sweet man had tried his best to help the Bostonian out, and had gotten nothing but a bitter attitude thrown in his face.

        We continued on the path for three long, inescapable days, glancing behind our shoulder at every turn, waiting for gunfire that never arrived. I was the designated cook, and continued my lessons with Doc on top of that. Occasionally I'd practice "stitching up wounds" with him, using the meat I'd prepare for dinner and flimsy metal butter knives included in our rations. I was getting better, and never once regretted offering to learn from the peppy blonde, who was beginning to grow prouder of me as my skill increased.

        I had fallen asleep early last night, before Hank had even returned from finishing up the laundry, and had woken up with his gently snoring body curled around mine. It was warm, and the soft light coming from outside spilled through the edges of the cloth tent, illuminating the small space in a comforting glow. Closing my eyes, I imagined we were far from here, back at home, lying in a real bed in a real room. My imagination ran wild, painting a life for us when we finally stepped off of the boat returning us to the crisp, bright shore, crowds of people waving American flags and welcoming us with open arms.