*Hattie*
The sun hasn't dared rise yet, but the eastern sky begins to erupt in shades of pink and orange. The porch boards creak beneath me as I shift my weight, stiff from where I sit, half-leaning, half-upright, against the rail. My dress is bunched under me, my arms crossed over my chest, the warmth of the last soldier I tended lingering. Someone moans nearby. Another man coughs. Beyond that sits the silence, thick and awful, the kind that only follows cannon fire and screams.
Half sleeping, half watching for any sign of Charlie, Eric, or a familiar face in the fog, I blink hard, trying to keep my eyes open, but sleep pulls at me like the tide. My hands are stained with blood, some dried, some fresh, and I’ve long since stopped noticing the iron smell of it. Now, the air is beginnin
