A short one so I'm posting two. Next one in 10 mins or so x
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Tommy
It was the second time she had slept in the loft with them. Tommy was as wide awake as he had been in the lamp light of the day and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness that encased him long ago. It was her pristine white shirt that stood out against the black background. The stark colour emphasised the rhythmic and calm rising and falling of her breathing. It could almost lull him into a tranquil state of sleep.
Almost. But not quite. The most Tommy could sleep was an hour before the noises would kick in. He knew it was all in his head, but that didn't stop them from coming back. They sounded like screams, echoing around his mind, but other times it was the sound of shovels hitting solid dirt, sounding like a ticking clock but louder and more ominous, that plagued him.
He sat up, his back straightening against the wall behind him. Soft trickles of warm light had begun to stream through the tiny holes that dotted in the corner of the room. The beginning of March brought lighter mornings that he hadn't seen in what felt like years. It was a large contrast to the dreary skies and smoky fields that surrounded him at every angle that he happened to glance at. But perhaps it was just this village that brought the light. There was hope here- despite the fact he remained under the same roof as a German soldier.
"You're up early again." Lucille's delicate voice broke him from his trance as she shuffled to sit up, the blanket draped across her shoulders.
"Do you dream about it?" She asked after he nodded in response to her statement. She seemed worried, but Tommy couldn't imagine why. Waking up early wasn't anything significant.
He paused for a moment, thinking about her question. It was obviously about the war- what else could it be about? In truth, he did dream about it. He dreamt about the shovels and the fighting every time his head hit something that remotely resembled a pillow. But they were more like nightmares than anything else: reoccurring, haunting images that wouldn't allow him to rest his tired eyes. He nodded.
"Every time I close my eyes." He said, as he shut them, leaning his head back before snapping them open again.
"What do you see?" She asked timidly.
"A lamp in a tunnel." He began as he looked up at her noticing that she was watching him carefully. "But it's not what I see, it's what I hear."
Why was he telling her this? Why was he opening his mouth and allowing his thoughts to pour out so effortlessly? It was like she possessed him- hypnotised him into speaking the reality of his fatigued being.
"I hear shovels and bombs and bullets and screams." He rubbed a hand over his face sighing deeply.
"I hear the splatter of blood. It's quiet but it's there." He said.
"Do you kind me asking, what did you do? In the war I mean." She asked, pulling the blanket tightly and securely around her small shoulders.
"I was a tunneller. We dug below the trenches and set bombs." Tommy explained. "We were stupid enough to volunteer for it."
"You volunteered for it?" She asked, surprised.
Tommy laughed, he had been surprised that he had volunteered at the time too. "No one wanted it. We thought we were being heroes. But really, we're the ones that die and get forgotten."
"But you're not dead."
"No. I'm not." He sighed. "Somehow."
"And Dawson? Did he do it with you?" She asked, and Tommy shook his head as he glanced over to the man's sleeping figure.
"I don't know." He said. "I met him in the camp. We don't normally talk about it."
"I'm sorry." She apologised, but he dismissed her with a shake of the head. She added, "I don't blame you."
"Well you're a hero in my eyes." She whispered, gazing back as he turned to face her finally.
"That's good enough for me." He said, his lips breaking out suddenly into a smile. "I can die a happy man."
"I hope that isn't a joke." She teased, rolling her eyes with a hinted laugh under her light breath.
But she stopped still as she heard his reply, a light blush dusting her nose and cheeks.
