Spanish Bombs

We met in '39, he had been a soldier in the Spanish Civil War. His past erased from his memory by a bludgeon on the head, thus stranded by my father's generosity in the guest room of our house. When he opened his eyes for what to him was the first time, it was me who stood by his side.

"In the beginning were her eyes, and her eyes were pure like God. And her eyes were God." He wrote in his final poem, the one I cling to with a feeble hand.

Me, God?
Me? A girl intimidated by a man who didn't know his own name?
Me; sneaking out of my room at night tip-toeing into his to observe him dream. Me, secretly afraid he would never wake up.
He; the stranger with bloody fingertips but fair complexion. He, the one I knew nothing about.
Yet he made me blush when I caught myself being distracted by his strong arms, drawn by the scratches on his abdomen, by the bulge between his legs where I shouldn't have been looking.

//another romance story by yours truly, this one is quite different though.

The story will be divided in two parts; "Spanish Bombs" and "Death is A Star."//