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By Root 598 0

scream like he had never screamed before, knowing he was condemned to lie there for hours, maybe days, as he was taken by internal hemorrhage, or sepsis, his poisoned blood slowly seeping. His body fighting to live—this was what drew it out. This was the worst thing of all. He could not reach his gun to quicken his death—or perhaps he did not have the courage. Perhaps he hoped to the last moment that someone would come for him and save him. Perhaps he curled up into the mire and howled Louise’s name, and wept like a child. We can pray that it was not so.

Yet you can see him falling to his knees, pressing down on his gushing wound with the flats of both helpless hands. Yet you can see his blood spurting from his innards—all over his clothes—in his agony he topples. What will he do next?

With his stricken thousand-yard eyes, he will look up at you, standing there holding an empty yellowed envelope in your hand, an envelope addressed to him but canceled, and returned to sender. He will not know the envelope is empty. He will not even question what you are doing here, a ghostly apparition wearing strange clothes and looking awfully clean and serene for a man standing in the middle of a battlefield. The roaring of guns cannot reach you. The two of you inhabit an in-between silence. He will make a great effort to speak to you, to say simply, “That letter is for me.”

“Yes.”

“Read it to me.”

You will, of course, not have the heart to tell him that the envelope is empty and that the letter is lost; it is not in the documentation. You will not have the heart to tell him that perhaps Louise destroyed the letter because it read:

My Dear Beloved Camille,

I cannot go against the wishes of my father. We cannot marry. I am sorry. I will always love you. You must know that.

Louise Victor

You will not have the heart to tell him that such a message was the last thing she said to him. She herself could not even bear such an idea and had to annihilate its very existence. It made her pain so much worse. But you will not worsen his pain at such a moment.

He will close his eyes to listen to you read, and you will be kind to him. You will be kind and read a nonexistent letter. After all, you have written a love letter to a complete stranger before:

My Dear Beloved Camille,

When will you come home to me? I miss you so. But we must not be mournful. We must look forward to the moment when my door will open and you will be standing there. You will take me in your arms and kiss me—oh, Camille, do you remember on the bed how my lips parted for you, darling? Next time I see you, they will again. Next time I see you, you must make love to me immediately. All this waiting is ridiculous.

You will be weary and broken, I know it. You men always try to be strong, but after you’ve seen what you’ve seen, it is not possible to not be broken. It’s all right, darling, you can be vulnerable with me. After we marry I will mend you. You will have a lifetime to suck the nectar from my body and be heartened by its sweetness. I will give you many children and we will spend many nights warmed by laughter and song. You know this, don’t you? I do.

We will meet soon. You must never forget: you are the jewel of my life.

Love always,

Louise Victor

When Camille hears this, he will smile through his pain. He will smile through his pain and faint away before your watery eyes, his wan face resting on the ground as if on a pillow, his hands lax around his wound with the blood still flowing out of it. You can hope that death will take him before he wakes up again. You can hope that his suffering is at an end. You can pray.]

Espèces errantes

WITHIN THE BOX, NESTLED within the documentation, there is another, smaller box. This one can fit in the palm of your hand. It is rectangular and black, with a fading pattern of little blue birds and flowers. This is the lid on the box:

Would you like to open it?

Inside you find a bit of change, scattered on the cloth lining like so much stray cash. Why not drop the coins one by one along the