Thread: Home From War (Dr. Curiosity&Sweet Angel Jocelyn)

Paul didn't let go until after he looked back to the festival, judging whether they were far enough. Once satisfied, he released his grip on Susanna, almost shoving her away from him in the process. Hurting you? You don't know what it means to hurt, yet. His hand balled into a tight fist, and it seemed as though the Mr. Landry might strike his wife. He wouldn't do it though, at least not this close to the town. When they were a much farther distance though, he might just take the opportunity. So why have I never heard of him? He looked back at the event, eyes squinted as though he expected to see the man he spoke of. Corporal Anthony Richardson. Paul said the name as though it were poison on his lips, and it disgusted him to say it. The whole town seems to know just who he is, to know that you two are friends. Don't think I didn't notice the gathering crowds, they were expecting something. Paul was no fool, and it would take a fool not to notice the tension between Susanna and Anthony. Anthony Richardson. He said it again lower, hoping maybe the more loathing manner he said it in it might hurt the owner of the name. Some distance away, another name was said in the same manner. Paul Landry. That assured him of everything. Susanna had perhaps once mourned for the loss of Anthony, but another man had come along quick to take his place. He was obviously good enough, as she had taken him willingly. No stopping things now, at least not in a respectable manner. So that was the end thought Anthony as he finally approached Richardson estate from the beaten dirt path. Moonlight lit the way as he walked without candlelight. This was how he preferred it though when he walked, and it reminded him of better times. Holding Susanna close as they watched the stars, pressing her tight against him when she was scared of the sounds of night. An easier time for everybody. It was ten more minutes before Anthony approached the front door, greeted by several slaves sitting around in peace after a long days work. Corporal Richardson didn't take the conventional way into the house though, avoiding the front door entirely. He skirted around to the side of the house, following the extended porch the stretch to both sides of the mansion. In a practice motion he leapt up, one foot planting on the railing before he launched up to grasp the layered shingles of the roof. Pulling himself up, he sat there for a minute. The house extended higher up, but this was as far as he need go, his bedroom being directly behind him now. Anthony could only sit there, and look at the moon, the stars. An event that was very lonely now and he could only bare for several minutes before entering the window. It was always open just for occasions like this, and the area inside was devoid of any objects he might trip over. His boots made a light hollow thud on the hardwood floor, and his saber clanked against the window sill until he took several more steps into the room. The first thing he found was his rucksack. It was a beaten leather bag with a flap to keep the items inside protected. It was dust covered and bloodstained as Anthony had not allowed anybody to touch it just yet. Pulling a pile of cream colored envelopes, the man quickly shuffled through them, not looking for any one in particular. One stood out to him at the moment though, and he couldn't help but pull it aside. It was the cream colored envelope, but was tarnished by several dull deep colored specks across the paper. Anthony recognized it to be blood, and as he ran his fingers over the stains he remembered how it came to be. How his blood ruined that letter. He didn't even need to open it, knowing the writing by heart, but opened it regardless, taking in the scrawl on the paper. 'Dear Susanna, I cannot tell you how much your letters have helped me. The months have become increasingly harsh, and it's only you that reminds me that I'm alive for a reason. Your writing sparks hope in me whenever I read it. Our platoon leader says that we will be moving back south soon, and if the war continues in this manner we'll be home by early next...' The rest of the letter was unfinished, for as Anthony wrote that, he remembered the feeling of hot pain in his right shoulder, a bullet passed right through cloth and flesh. He doubled over, slightly slower on reaction than he intended. His instant reaction had been to fire back, as he platoon was now preparing to do. His rifle nestled into the space between his chest and shoulder, and he fired off once. Once was all he could manage, as he had unthinkingly placed the butt of his rifle right against the open bullet wound, and the kickback of the gun sent pain surging through his body. He remembered crumpling into the trench they had built, and awakening some many minutes later by a screaming sergeant who feared the worst for Anthony. That was the first letter to never be delivered, followed by many more, all of which Anthony held in his hand. They were now heavy as lead in his hand, feeling the weight of his broken heart in the pieces of paper.