1917

May 22, 1918

  There was no school that day, as I had fallen victim to a severe stomach bug. The hours crawled by in a haze of discomfort, but what truly stood out was the strange turn our conversations took. It was a most peculiar Wednesday, marked by an air of disquiet, as if the theme of bloodshed had infiltrated every exchange.

  The morning began innocuously enough, with my mother tending to me with warm broth and cold compresses. Yet, as the day wore on, the mood in the house grew heavier. Perhaps it was the recent news of the war—stories of soldiers lost, battles fought, lives irreparably altered—that hung over us like a dark cloud. The weight of it seeped into our words, transforming ordinary conversation into unsettling meditations on violence and loss.

  My mother shifted nervously in her chair, fingers twisting the fabric of her apron as she glanced toward me. It was as though she wanted to change the subject but couldn’t find the strength or words to do so. Her eyes met mine, a fleeting moment of unspoken understanding, before she looked away.

“It’s… strange, isn’t it?” she said finally, voice hesitant. “How the world keeps turning even as people fall by the wayside. You’d think it would stop for a moment, just to acknowledge them.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. My stomach churned—not just from illness, but from the weight of her words. The universe did feel cruel, relentless in its indifference to the blood that soaked its soil.

  The topic persisted, stubborn and unyielding, weaving itself into every corner of our dialogue. Stories of my father and Michael surfaced, their memories now intertwined with the broader narrative of suffering. My mother spoke softly, her words trembling as though the act of saying them might somehow solidify the pain.

“It’s hard not to think about them on days like this,” she admitted, voice cracking slightly. “The ones we’ve lost, the reasons they’re gone… it’s all tied to this endless cycle of violence and illness.”

  I nodded weakly, clutching my blanket closer. I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more—the conversation, or the sense that it felt almost inevitable, as though bloodshed had become the backdrop of our lives.

  The day dragged on, peculiar and heavy, leaving me with a lingering unease. What began with mundane pleasantries spiraled into debates about conflict, loss, and the heavy toll of violence.

“War changes people. It’s the politicians and billionaires who have it easy,” I said aloud without realizing it. My voice carried the weight of something I hadn’t meant to share, hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

  My mother, quietly tidying up, paused and turned toward me. Her gaze was steady but soft, as though she understood the depth of what I felt.   “It’s true,” she said after a moment. “They make decisions from their ivory towers, while the rest of us bear the cost.”

  I nodded slowly, thoughts spiraling back to my cousins, Michael, and the horrors of mustard gas that had claimed Carson. Images of his suffering—though distant and second-hand—etched themselves into my mind like battle scars of my own. And now, my father was gone too, though in a different kind of fight.

“They send us to die for their profits and power,” I murmured bitterly, clenching my fists. “And we call them heroes when they sit behind desks, signing papers that destroy lives.”

  My mother came over and sat beside me, hand resting gently on my shoulder.   “It’s a heavy truth, Jeremiah, but don’t let it fill your heart with hatred. That anger, if you carry it too long, will only hurt you.”

“But how can I not be angry?” I countered, voice rising. “We’re the ones left to pick up the pieces, while they walk away untouched. They don’t know what it’s like to lose someone. To lose everything.”

  Her face softened, and she took my hand in hers.   “You’re right—they don’t. But it’s people like us, who feel the weight of loss, who have the power to make things better. Not through anger, but through compassion and action. You can be better than them, Jeremiah. Don’t let them take that from you too.”

  I swallowed hard, her words a mixture of comfort and challenge. The world seemed broken, but maybe—just maybe—there was still something worth fighting for. Something better than rage. Something better than war.

“Mom?” I asked quietly, barely above a whisper.   “Yes?” she whispered back.

  Curiosity got the better of me as I lay there, still queasy but eager to distract myself. “What did you want to be when you were little?” I asked. It wasn’t often she spoke about her past, and I longed for a glimpse of a side of her that remained hidden most of the time.

  She paused, the shirt in her hands stilled mid-fold, expression shifting to contemplation. For a moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer, then a soft sigh escaped her lips, curving into a bittersweet smile.

“When I was little, I wanted to be a writer,” she admitted. “I dreamed of doing stories that could change people’s hearts, make them see the world differently.”

  I sat up straighter, surprised. “Really? You never told me that before.”   She chuckled softly, though there was sadness in her eyes I couldn’t ignore. “Well, dreams are funny things. Sometimes they get lost along the way.”

  I hesitated before asking my next question, knowing it might stir unpleasant memories. “Was it because of… your father?”

  Her expression darkened briefly, gaze falling to the floor. Her father—the man she never referred to by name—was a sore topic. I only knew fragments: a high school coach whose disgusting behavior had forced him to resign in disgrace after inappropriate advances on students came to light.

  She nodded faintly, voice quieter now.   “He had a way of making everything feel… wrong. Like nothing you did would ever be good enough, no matter how hard you tried. And then, after everything he did…” She trailed off, words hanging like a storm cloud.

  I didn’t press her further. The anger and disgust I felt simmered in my chest, but I didn’t want to add to her burden. Instead, I focused on the light in her earlier words.

“But you still love writing,” I pointed out, trying to spark hope.   She smiled again, softer this time, nodding. “I do. And I see a lot of potential in you, Jeremiah. You’ve got a way with words—don’t let anyone ever take that from you.”

  Her words lingered like an ember in my mind. For the first time that day, the heaviness lifted just a little.

  As the relentless waves of nausea overtook me, I felt utterly defeated. The taste of bile burned in my throat, leaving a bitter sting that made the ordeal worse. My body shook with each retch, and I clung to the edge of the bed, wishing for relief that refused to come.

  More than anything, I just wanted to be well again. Free of this miserable affliction. But as I lay trembling and weak, I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done to deserve this. Why was I being punished? I didn’t drink or smoke. I didn’t destroy forests for selfish gain.

  It felt unfair, a cosmic injustice, and my thoughts grew darker as discomfort deepened. Perhaps this was divine retribution for some unseen sin. Or worse, maybe it was simply the universe reminding me how little control I had.

  At one point, in my fevered haze, my mind drifted to Abel Simmons. I considered, briefly, visiting him in his cell. Maybe he held answers to life’s bitter twists. But I quickly dismissed the thought. Abel would rough me up immediately. And even if he didn’t, what solace could a man like him offer?

  I sank deeper into the bed, too exhausted to wrestle further. All I could do was pray, though suspicion gnawed at me—was I even worthy of an answer? Sleep, uneasy and fitful, finally pulled me under.

If you want, I can also restructure this so the nausea and fevered state are woven more seamlessly with the philosophical and emotional reflections, making the entire day feel more immersive and harrowing from Jeremy’s perspective.

Do you want me to do that?