I Fell in Love with Hope - Lancali

screaming to die down. It digressed into unrhythmic moans till the
man’s consciousness faded.
I should’ve been scared. I think a part of me was. Another was
curious.
About the blood. Blood is accusatory. It spreads, and it stains, and its
reach is infinite.
I wanted to know why.
My first memory makes hospitals seem like a violent place. Hospitals
are not violent. Hospitals diffuse violence and cure its victims.
My second memory is less gruesome. More sudden. Just as sad.
There was another soldier. This one was silent. You might’ve thought
there was no life behind his eyes till he blinked. He took breath after
breath, one hand on his chest. Then, his hand fell. His eyes closed.
He stopped breathing.
Red pooled from the spot he held and dripped from his fingers.
When the one-legged man woke, he started to scream again.
He crawled out of the cot, dragging himself across the floor.
Screaming, crying, screaming some more. He grabbed the other
soldier’s bloody hand hanging off the bed and wailed into it. The
nurses had to pry him off.
Until he fainted, the soldier stared at the dead man. He cursed, as
coherently as he could. He cursed the war. He cursed the nurses
and doctors and hospital alike. He cursed death most of all.
My second memory makes hospitals seem like a field. A place of
harvest for death to collect. I don’t argue with that. I challenge it
silently as the soldier silently waits to die. Same as him, I don’t
believe it. I accept it. I have to.