Memoirs of the Lost Loser

Lie so Low

This is your fault.

The red, blistered, disgustingly moist skin of Jean and Connie is entirely your fault. You watched them struggle throughout the training of the day, given all the crawling in the dust and the sweat, you could tell their skin must've formed pus by now. They itched to remove their uniform at lunch but couldn't do so because the blisters must've rubbed against the hard fabric of the uniform. That had been pure torture for them. Not to mention they became a laughingstock throughout the day.

All because you wasted a month getting back at them.

You admit. What you did was terrible. Terrible, yes, but great.

Your conscience can't bear it. They probably don't remember what they told you, and it hurts that they forgot they just someone with their words.

Nevertheless, you'll do the honorable thing this time.
You won't tell them it's you though. Shadis is one nasty motherfucker after all.

"Hey Jean," Jean passed by you in the wooden patio, preoccupied with scratching around the swollen lesions. His irritated attention fell on you. You intended to offer him and Connie that one time full service you've never given anyone before, and never to give anyone again.

"You should take a warm bath." You cringed when he reached for his crotch, and you could tell how relieved he's feeling when he scratched his inner thighs, to his tight bikini line.

That's where you rubbed most of the leaves after all.

You showed him some oatmeal soap mixed in some of corticosteroids from the ointments you brought with you from your world. 

"I heard you guys couldn't do the training awhile back."

"Y-Yeah," He was startled.... more like bewildered. He didn't expect you to know his name, nor to speak to him at all. You're not a face that could blow everyone's mind and you understood if he doesn't remember, but it hurts to know that he brushed off his name calling because it meant nothing to him.

You held on that pursed lip— hopefully you looked sympathetic rather than apologetic, and tendered him the soap.

And he was alarmed, of course he was. Soap is not a basic commodity in the military, especially in the outer walls. Maybe you should consider selling this to Reeves if you run out of money or you need extra coins. Or you could sell it in Sina because only the rich can afford it.

"W-where did you get this?!" Jean hissed accusingly. He scratched his neck which only peeled the skin. He winced at the wound, and you can't help but cringe at the blood and pus seeping in his gray collared shirt.

"I made it. I worked as an apprentice before I came here. Since I have a spare, you and Connie should share. Also," What you said isn't an outright lie, right? You really were an apprentice... of pots and knives making, that is. You saw him bring his defenses down, as he observed the soap with such curiosity he almost looked like a child.

Well, he is a child. A teenager to be exact.

"I've only used one of these when a friend of my mom gave me a birthday present." He mumbled under his breath, his nose buried in the scentless soap.

"Sorry, I didn't put flowers on it—"

"It's fine," He chirped, his eyes alive and happy that he forgot his predicament for a while.

"There's more..." You said, as you fished that pate-like cream you made from peppermint and eucalyptus leaves. "After taking a bath put this on your skin.  Twice a day and always make sure the itches are always dry. Maybe you should visit Sir Shadis so he could excuse you and Connie."