Talking Old Soldiers

The thin floral strap slipped off her shoulder for the eighth time that night, and her shaky fingers gripped the cursed fabric and smoothed it back into place. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all. Her friends had warned her that it just wasn't safe anymore; no one could go out alone without the risk. The risk of torture, the risk of kidnap, the risk of death. But she didn't care and had thrown on her dress in a mad dash for the door. The world had become so bleak that the hole of fear was starting to swallow everyone alive. The bartender gave her a smile and refilled her drink, she went to pay but he waved her off mumbling something about a lack of beauty lately. She took a long swallow and glanced to her right; there were three men huddled together talking in low whispers over gin and tonics. With a sigh she looked to her left and saw the shadow move. A shadow of a man had been sitting up against the wall at the end of the bar, only moving to empty another shot. This made the eighth since she had been there. With a quick swipe at her hair she picked up her cup and scooted down the bar.

"Have you found it yet?" she quietly asked the man still sitting in the shadows.

"What?" his low voice asked, and the bartender filled his shot again, vodka.

"Whatever is hiding in the bottom of your shots," she answered a little more loudly. He laughed, a short, clipped, hollow laugh and she shivered involuntarily. His hand reached out of the shadows and lightly grabbed the shot glass. The small light reflected off the cuts all over his arm, and she tried to suppress another shiver as the shot disappeared for a moment. She could feel the pain, radiating off him in thick searing waves.

"I don't think I'll find anything, not tonight," the man said and let the empty shot fall back to the bar. She pushed the strap back up and took a sip of the drink trying to gauge if the pain was dangerous or fresh.

"Are you a soldier?"

"Aren't we all," he quickly answered and pointed at the shot. It was immediately filled.

"No...not really. We all have a choice."

"Very true." He ran his thin white finger along the ridge of the shot. His finger slipped and dipped into the clear vodka for a moment, enlightening her to his level of inebriation.

"Have you come to remember or forget?" She pushed and watched another shot disappear.

"What about you?" he cornered and set the empty shot down.

"Remember. Remember my family, my friends, and my life all before this happened." She stopped to take a drink and found the words continuing to fall out of her mouth. "I wanted to remember when it felt safe, and happy, and light. The fear is starting to swallow me whole."

"Have you lost many to the war?" he asked as the shot refilled again.

"Only a few, but a few is enough." She waited for him to add his few stats; it seemed to be the thing to do. All anyone had to relate to was the raising death toll, and the fear. She waited for a few minutes, but the waves of pain washed over their silence again. "But at least they have all died for a cause; I would hate to die without purpose."

"Oh," was all he offered and sank further into the shadows.

"There is just so much going on, don't you think?" The alcohol was letting the words escape, even though her brain was screaming to stay in silence. "Between the raids, the battles, the mutinies, the death, I'm trying to stay positive, but some nights...some nights..." She trailed off and finished off her drink.

"Yes, some nights...most nights," he added and knocked back the next shot.

"It's just good to have friends. Don't you agree?" She started but then stopped and gripped the bar as the familiar feeling started to fill the air between them. It was what she had come to forget, but now the air was snapping with an acute amount of controlled fury, tainted with an agony only survivors can understand.

"Do you have a graveyard as a friend?" His quiet voice broke through the air and the shiver shook her to the core. "Because that's where mine are." He moved out of the shadow for the first time that night and she gasped. "All of them."

She couldn't decide if it was the haunted, tortured look on his face, or the air that had shot to arctic cold around them, but she backed away from the bar for a moment.

"I...I'm sorry," she stammered and felt the alcohol instantly drain from her head and form a tight anxious ball in her stomach.

"It's alright." His voice broke and he seemed to crawl back into the shadows. "You're right, there's so much going on. Yet no one seems to want to know." He set down a large sum of money on the bar, and slid some of it down toward her.

"Please...don't," she started but he had already slung on his cloak, still hiding in the shadows.

"Have a few drinks on me," he almost whispered and put a heavy hand on her bare shoulder, the touch painfully cold. "One of us needs to have some good memories...some nights."

His hand slipped off and he slowly walked away, past the still huddled men, and out into the humid summer air. Her strap fell off again but she couldn't take her eyes off the door, or the talking old soldier whose pain was still radiating in his wake.