This is a request for marmaladeskies67. I really hope you enjoy it, and it was really fun and unique to write. It's an alternate reality thing, set during WW2. Enjoy darlings xx
Every day's the same. We wake, we wait, we starve, we freeze, we sleep. Nothing moves. Nothings pleasure, only fear. The one thing I rely on with each passing day is the memory of YN.
We've been fighting this war for three years now, although I've only been on the front line for around a year, and each day brings more pain being away from my wife, YN.
The only contact I have with her is through letter, and even then, I'm not guaranteed a response, for reasons that I refuse to think about. To the backdrop of shelling, shouting and screaming, I write my next letter, praying to God it won't be my last.
......................................................................................................
London, 1942.
Descending down the stairs following another sleepless night, I yawn and shiver as I make my way through to the stone-cold kitchen. Just as I fire up the stove to warm up the remaining water I have left in the house, I hear the letterbox slam shut, meaning post has been delivered.
I run out to the dinky hallway, where I find a letter on the carpet. I recognise the writing immediately.
It's Ringo's.
Squealing with excitement (and a huge amount of relief), I tear the envelope open and open up the letter.
I sit down at the makeshift kitchen table and read it, savouring every detail. I read it in his voice, which makes it even more heart-wrenching.
"Dear Dearest YN,
Fine here (for now). Not much action other than constant shelling, not achieving much. Nights are cold and desolate without you, my love.
Every night, I sleep imagining your arms are around my waist, only to wake up and find them not to belong to you, but to the soldier next to me, who is dreaming of his wife also. Poor sod.
I miss you, YN. I can't wait to be home, next to you. How I pray it won't be long.
All My Loving, Ringo x"
He clearly hasn't lost his sense of humour, but I can sense it's hollowing out, and he's struggling to cope. I trace my finger over Ringo's handwriting, remembering everything we've done together, and everything we will do, when he gets home. Because he will come home.
Closing my eyes to prevent the cascade of tears already sliding down my cheeks, I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve, before folding the letter back up.
Through the blurriness of my tears, I spy writing on the back, and with curiosity, I hold the note closer to my face.
"Oh yeah, come to the front door."
Eyebrows furrowing, I tentatively shuffle to the front door, where I can see a silhouette through the small piece of glass that isn't boarded off. My thoughts run wild as I reach for the door handle.
Opening the door slowly, I gasp sharply when I see the figure standing there, beaming from ear to ear.
"RINGO?!"
I scream, running out and leaping into his arms. Our mouths smash together as we greet each other, the first time in 13 months. He spins me round as my hands rest on his cheeks, and his hands hold me up by my thighs.
