Malarkey rolls it carefully in his hands, with a touch so gentle as if he's afraid to break it, the corner of his mouth quirks up and suddenly his head is filled with memories; a lot of memories, all of them fighting with each other like they were w...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✞ ✞ ✞ ✞ ✞
"You see a dead enemy soldier and you say, At least it wasn't one of ours. You see a dead American soldier—one of your own—and you say, At least it wasn't me. You lose a friend and you say, To hell with this. Get me out of here."
― Donald Malarkey
The snow creaks heavily under Malarkey's boots. He sighs, thinking about that time he bantered with one of his friends from Oregon about how the snow was thousand of times better than the rain. Now, a few years later, he wishes he could have some rain just as much as a cup of hot chocolate, and he wishes the snow would be fucking abolished from nature. He hates snow, now. Snow is evil. Snow took his best friend away from him. Technically it was German artillery, but it doesn't make so much difference now.
Malarkey hates the snow.
He sighs again, letting his body drop heavily in his foxhole. He hides his hands in his pockets, trying to warm them up a little without really succeeding, when his palm meets something. At first he frowns, he's quite sure he only had a pack of cigarettes and a wet tissue in that pocket.
Then he remembers.
A black cross. The black cross.
Malarkey rolls it carefully in his hands, with a touch so gentle as if he's afraid to break it, the corner of his mouth quirks up and suddenly his head is filled with memories; a lot of memories, all of them fighting with each other like they were waiting impatiently for him to touch the cross to come back to life. All of them so confusing, but he is so vivid it's like having him here in this very moment.
But he's not.
✞ ✞ ✞ ✞ ✞
Skip Muck reaches him at the table as Malarkey attacks a piece of bread that was laying on his plate.
"What's this supposed to be, Malark?" Skip asks, sliding in the chair in front of him and tossing his plate as if it 's burning his skin.
"Mashed potatoes, I believe."
"Friend, I'm telling you, if this is potatoes I'm Glenn Miller," Skip moans. "I swear this is Perconte's vomit from the other day. Isn't mashed potatoes supposed to be yellow-ish? Why is this stuff brown?"
Malarkey barks out a laugh. "Stop complaining and eat, smartass."
Skip Muck has been his best friend since day one. He's everybody's best friend, actually - how could he not be? - but he and Malarkey have been inseparable almost from the start. Muck is a fun bloke to have around, smart, carefree and sometimes Malarkey wishes he could be at least half the person Skip is.
