𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; band of brothers ✔

PART THIRTY SEVEN

Officially the most chapters I have written for a book (excluding epilogues etc.)

Word count; 1,340

Liebgott

I swallowed, the beat that once pounded against my ribcage turning cold, like the cement that had been poured over it had finally hardened. 

"Okay." I said.

My lips trembled as they brushed over her forehead. I stood up, watching over her like a sailor watches their ship turn to ashes. She wasn't looking at me anymore. She had focused on something else, something distant.

Our child.

I had thought of it too many times to count. Another, perfect variation, of her. Another thing to treasure, to protect. But - in the end - none of that mattered. It was her, always her.

I shut the door behind me, the creak of the hindges igniting the dorment navigation in my veins. My fists clenched, craving the swolleness of ancient conflicts. Like that, I was a figure in the ceiling, observing everything below with no control. I walked forward, then jogged, following the siren of familiar voices. Outside, covered by the midday sun, a medic spoke with another, more groups of men loitering around the veranda. The lake in the background glimmered, the boughs of trees swayed gently in the breeze.

My fist planted directly on the medic's temple, the man forced to stagger back from being caught off guard. Still up above, I watched as I threw myself at Eugene, punching and punching and punching until he fought back. Almost everyone was near now, trying to find the right moment to pluck us apart. But that was the thing about Eugene; he never got into fights, because he'd win every time. And that's what I needed. It wasn't long before he right hooked the side of my head, and all went black.

I had been put on a bed, the chamber dark and cold and white. A ceiling fan buzzed away, a fly fighting the window on the left wall. If this were to be my life from now on, I'd have no issue with it.

My head fell to the side, a deep throb originating from the back of my skull. Eugene sat on a small stall in the far corner, massaging his bruised knuckles as if it weren't the first time they had become so purple. I almost chuckled; even if I was near to killing him, he still would sit there, waiting to put the pieces of me back together.

"I never thought I'd say it - Liebgott - but you are an asshole." He muttered, not bothering to look up.

I shifted, my had instinctively reaching for my nose. I couldn't remember him breaking it, more so fixing it. Unbothered, my eyes fell to the window, the mountains outside.

"Did she tell you?" I asked.

"Why do you think I was there?" The medic said, matter-of-fact.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Liebgott," He scoffed. "Would it have changed a thing?"

I narrowed on the fly, "Suppose not."

Eugene sighed, and he stood up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He walked around the bed, taking my view away from the window.

"What happened?"

I rolled my eyes; he never dug for information, he despised to. But he wasn't on my side here.

I tried to pull myself up, "She doesn't want me anymore, Doc."

"She said that?"

"More or less." I sniffed.

"And you didn't fight?"

"Eugene," I chuckled. "I made a promise to myself that day in Bastogne, when she stood before me, battered and bruised; I'd never do something she didn't want me to. And she didn't want me to stay."