where's my mind / poetry, oneshots etc.

grief / journey's end

stanhope couldn't sleep.

not that he did anyway, but osborne had always managed to persuade him to sleep for at least a couple of hours.

and osborne was gone.

and so was raleigh.

god, what was he going to say to martha? that he lost her brother. he should've been their with them. raleigh shouldn't have had to do the dash.

it was his fault they were dead.

that osborne was dead.

he was still trying to get his head round that.

that he wouldn't be coming into the dug-out in half an hour's time, a pipe in between his teeth and a smile on his lips. that he wouldn't be eating bread and jam as stanhope read through maps and accounts.

stanhope took his old friend's wedding ring from the table, twisting it around his fingers. what was he going to say to jane? and the kids?

he sighed and sat down, not bothering to pour himself a glass of whiskey, and instead necked the whole bottle. osborne wasn't there to stop him anymore.

if only he hadn't have been so stubborn. told the colonel that 'c' company's men were too valuable to lead the raid. or, even, hibbert and trotter could've done it. that way, hibbert would've died, like he wanted to, and trotter could give poor mason a break.

but no.

it had to be his only friend and his old friend.

he and raleigh used to do everything together. follow the river in the woods. try to find old ruins from william the conquerer's day. be on the same cricket team. play rugger in the summer; a one v one game.

and then stanhope went off to war.

three years later, raleigh joined him, only three days ago.

three days.

that's how long it took for a man to die in this horrid game called war.

stanhope couldn't take the pain, the memories, the despair any longer.

you're coming back, old man, he had said. damn it! what on earth should i do without you?

what was he going to do without osborne? the man that looked after him like a son?

what did osborne to for god to hate him so? to kill him, when he knew perfectly well how much stanhope needed him?

his fingers unlatched the pocket where his revolver was kept. maybe it could go off by accident, like it could've done with hibbert, and maybe it would strike him between the eyes.

that would be unfortunate.

and then he'd join osborne and raleigh and he could drink glass upon glass for eternity and–

no, dennis, he scolded himself, your men need you.

but he needed osborne.

needed him to make sure he didn't drink too much, wasn't too reckless, wasn't too harsh on his men–

to make sure he didn't blow his brains out.

damn it, the trigger was right there, and so was his finger.

it was so easy.

just pull the trigger.

but would that make him any better than hibbert? that little worm, that swine, who faked an illness to get out of war, so men like osborne and raleigh could die? was he really going to be that much of a coward?

he set the revolver on the table, next to the empty whiskey bottle and osborne's letters, and buried his head in his hands.

his men needed him alive.

he had to stick it out; to see the war end.

then he could visit jane and tell her all the wonderful stories about her husband.

he could follow the river, and raleigh's ghost could be with him, and maybe he could find those ruins.

and he'd see martha again!

god, his heart ached to feel her lips on his again.

and he'd be free; free of his pain and pressure and paranoia and the screams and the crying and the nightmares–

he only wished osborne and raleigh could have had the same thing.

•

god i adore journey's end

hyper-empathy is great until you're crying in your english class and no one's even died yet 👍

stay safe,
-jem ✨