Armchair

War is romantic.

A battle, no matter how big, suddenly becomes a hole in your chest. Hollow, yet filled to the brim with fire. Burning low and hot. Your heart is set deep in the back, fanning the flame with every beat. Every beat for those you love, and the things you believe in. Everyone has something worth fighting for, even if it doesn't make sense. 

I squinted as a ray of light bounced into my eye. I grabbed towards it, picking up the enemy weapon. I felt the slick warmth still hovering on the metal handle. It made me sick. I wasn't sure I’d get off my knees if I tried. 

Though I didn't. I sat hard. I had a funeral on the battlefield. A beautiful meadow, surrounded by pine trees. The smell of the lake in the air was hardly masked by blood and gunpowder. 

The enemy side had swords. Swords, from a regiment of their size in 1756? It had to be a show of confidence. No amount of vanity could save the bodies strewn across the field. 

Sitting in the middle of gunfire and clashing metal was no place to realize I no longer cared for this land. I couldn't be sure why I was fighting to begin with. I loved my regiment, the men who took me in and showed me the way. I loved their passion, but it was not mine. 

“Get them off! Get them out of the field before their blood stains our soil!” 

I thought it to be the voice of my colonel, though I could not tell. All around me, men grabbed their brothers, their friends, and their fellow soldiers. They didn't speak. Some were struck down in the process. One man ran in my direction. My eyes were fixated on the body in front of me. 

When he reached me, his weapon dropped into the long grass. I expected an explosion but it barely made a sound. The thump of his knees mirroring mine was louder. We sat there, immune to the never-ending battle around us. It was everyone's funeral after all. 

I never looked up at him. I heard a short whiz, followed by an unmistakable smell. The man fell forward onto the body between us. I wasn’t sure who I was looking at anymore, as coats and bodies melted rapidly into one. I leaned forward. The fire reminded me of home. Chilly nights with no sleep, beers with my soldiers, and tea. It was warm and I was so tired. 

I suppose no one saw me. A pile of bodies burning is just that. I could’ve considered myself as good as dead the second my knees hit the green earth. Anyone who wasn't on two feet running in one direction or the next was lost. There were no medics. There was no cure for a gash such as this. The men lying face down could tell you well enough. God, what I would do for a cup of tea. 

The smell of fire was suddenly absent. My body wasn’t burning with warmth and exhaustion. It felt cold and wet. The battle must be over. 

I sunk my knees back into the damp grass whilst pushing onto my elbow. My face remained buried in the dirt afraid to see what lay before me. For the first time in this entire endeavor, I prayed. I was so confident and cocky, so sure we would win I never thought to ask for God’s guidance. Did I lose out on his protection because so many men asked before me? His hand surely wasn't limited, yet it was given sparsely. The ease in which I forgot to have a word with him painted me unworthy of his thought as well.

Did the man in front of me speak with him? 

I opened my eyes, raising my head slowly. The body was gone. Realization relaxed my body. In one swift movement, I sat with my legs sprawled in front of me. I turned, expecting to see my regiment recovering. A fire cracking I didn't think to hear before, bottles being passed around while wounds get cleaned. As I turned to meet the survivors my eyes were met with a vast and empty forest. It felt familiar and strange. Getting to my feet was far too easy, and I began to wonder if I stood clearly in my epilogue. 

I couldn't find the energy to be concerned. I half expected God himself to pop out from behind a tree, shaking my hand and saying, “You did it kid! You won. Sorry you couldn’t enjoy it, and welcome home! Your father has been waiting for you. He said he's never seen someone reload a rifle with such grace.” I hug him and we would go to my dad, where he’d wait at a table with a fine glass of whiskey. And this time? This time he would pour me a cup and tell me he was proud of me.

There was no one but me. I tried to gather my bearings. My haversack lay against my hip, though my canteen was missing. I imagine I must’ve dropped it during battle. I reached towards my torso, grabbing at the blood that had soaked through my waistcoat. With the pain being gone, it slipped my mind that I had been wounded at all. I pulled my shirt up to take stock of how bad the injury was, but as I raised my garments higher there was not a scratch to be found. Heaven, it was. 

I picked up my hat and fiddled with it as I walked. I had no means to make a fire and no direction in which to go. I was slowly making my way northeast for about an hour in the rain, at which point I realized the supposed raindrops were tears flowing coldly down my face. Soaking my shirts and dehydrating me. I wanted to lay on the ground staring unbothered into the sky as everyone else on the field. Yet my exhaustion was no longer physical. I went on. 

As the sun slowly began to dim behind the mountains, I noted the faint smell of a campfire. I turned further north in hopes of finding it. After a battle as bloody as that, any enemy camp would take me in without ask. I neared the campsite with haste. I needed water desperately and was incapable of locating a heavily bleeding wound. The trees began to disperse. I could see a fire, surrounded by laughter. It was behind a large structure I had never seen riddled with bright lanterns. This had to be the enemy yet without my canteen or flint, I was hopeless. As I approached the tree line I spoke so as to not frighten them. 

“Hello? I mean no harm. I just need some water.” 

The laughs dimmed as the two men looked in my direction. They shared a glance before walking towards me. As they passed around the fire I couldn't make out what uniforms they were wearing. It seemed they were celebrating, with the bottles that sat between them. They neared without a word as I reached for my knife. The sheath was gone. 

“Hey man, are you okay? Is that blood?” The taller one spoke carefully. 

I didn't understand. “Of course this is blood. Did you, are you two not soldiers?” I remained at the tree line as the two men stopped ten feet away. 

“Soldiers?” The other man laughed, the bottle still in hand. 

His friend shoved his shoulder, “Riley shut up. He’s bleeding.” 

Their jackets were thick, made of fur and a dark blue material that looked stiff and cold. I had never seen it in such a form, they must be of great wealth. 

“I just need some water, please.”

The man I presumed to be Riley turned around and walked up the stairs and into the structure. The taller man introduced himself as Micahel while he led me up the same path. 

As I entered the huge door made fully of glass I squinted at the brightness of it all. I had never seen such bright lamps before. 

“I'm sorry I just can't help myself, what have you got burning in those? Is it grease?” I asked. 

Michael turned to give me a funny look as he led me into a stark white room. It was made of tile, the cleanest I've ever seen. And somehow even brighter than the other rooms. 

“Sit up here.” Michael patted at a spot on the counter that covered half the room. I pulled myself up and began removing my waistcoat. 

 “So uh, what happened? Were you working with the museum and got lost?” Michael began looking me over, finding even less than I had before. 

“Museum? What are you on about?” I was growing irritated. I began realizing I wasn't bleeding at all. In such a whirlwind it's easy to be confused. There was blood everywhere, it wasn't necessarily mine. I couldn’t hold back my anger. 

“You know, it's not surprising you'd act confused surrounded by wealth such as this. I bet you bought your way right out of it didn't you?” I continued. 

Michael stared back at me before responding. “My parents work at the phone company so I wouldn't exactly call this wealth, but uh, bought my way out of what?” His arms crossed tightly. 

“You don't mean to tell me you didn't know about the battle today. How far could I have possibly woken? This day has been no less than a year in the making.” My thoughts trailed off as I admired the glasses that sat on his face. They sat on his face, with no effort of his own. 

“What battle?” 

I read the tight look on his face for a moment. He looked at me with suspicion and concern. I suppose I looked at him in the same way. 

“The battle on Stillwater clearing. For the ownership of this land. My regiment, they,” I snapped out of the memory as Michael grabbed my shoulder. 

“Dude. This is gonna be a problem.” 

Michael gave me a look of pity before leaving the room to speak with Riley. I didn't move, there was nowhere to go. Something was wrong and it wasn’t just these raging oil lamps. I had heard certain fuels making different colored flames, but I had never seen it for myself. A white flame? It must've been clean grease, not from the kitchen. 

The men walked back in together, filling the room with more tension. 

“How do you feel?” Michael asked. 

“I feel quite fine. Thank you. I just need some water if I might remind you.” I put my soiled shirt back on. The room made me feel exposed and vulnerable, and the piercing stares from my company weren't any help either.  

“Can you grab him a glass of water, please?” Michael asked Riley. Surely he was looking to interrogate me further. 

“Do you know where you are?” He asked. 

“Well, Canyon Lake, at the least. Unless those wretched low lives did win and renamed the state already.” I responded. 

“Well, yeah.” 

I never thought I'd be so well-versed in the many faces of pity. 

“Yeah, what?” I slid off the counter to my feet. 

I thought I saw a glimpse of fear that flash across his face before returning his gaze to the floor. “Canyon Lake. You’re actually in the…” He thought for a moment. As my anger dissipated, it was replaced with dread. “The town of Stillwater. You probably walked here from the clearing. Would’ve been a couple hours walk in your condition and-” 

I cut him off. “My condition? As I have already assured you I am perfectly fine.” I scoffed, grabbing my waistcoat. “You have seen it for yourself. Now thank you for the help but I must have you confused.” I walked back towards the large doors, stopped by a glass of water in front of my face. 

“Here. Drink up.” Riley laughed. 

I stood and drank it quickly. I set the glass down on the grand island before heading towards the door. 

“It was empty.” I continued walking as Michael spoke, trailing behind. 

“The clearing. It was empty because there was no battle there. Not today, at least.”

I turned slowly, evening my breath. 

“Look at me.” I held my arms out in defeat. “You mean to tell me, that I didn't just… fight? For my life. For my, my company?” Tears stung my eyes. At this rate, I would die of dehydration before morning. I laughed to myself, looking over my hat in my hands. 

“What's your name?” Michael walked past me, down to the fire where he cracked open another bottle. 

“Maxwell Acker.” 

“What year did your battle take place, Maxwell?” Michael asked. 

Riley joined us, lying on one of the large rocks surrounding the fire. 

“This year, assuredly. It was today. Michael, is it?” He nodded. “Or, alright. It was yesterday. I woke up alone. I think I was a bit further into the forest.” 

“There’s no meadow anymore. It's rumored the bodies grew the trees over there. That's why they are so dense and large, because of how many died.” 

“That's a twisted tale, that would take years to be true, if so.” My head tilted downwards as I questioned him with my eyes. 

“Yeah. Exactly.” Michael said with defeat. 

“I fear you’re being very…” I had to think. For someone who seemed full of sorrow, he spoke indifferently. “Prudish.” 

He shot up laughing “Bro, what are you talking about?” 

“You obviously are withholding information. Or maybe you dragged the survivors of my regiment to useless parts of the forest, in hopes we would die at the hand of God or the like.” I stood up making sure I had my haversack. These men would be of no more help. With a small knowledge of my surroundings, I was confident I could find the lake. 

“If you leave right now you’re gonna get hit by a car or something. I don't know how this became my problem so can we just drink for a bit while I figure this out?” Michael said. 

“A what?” I turned to face him yet again. 

He nodded his head at me in understanding, one I missed of course. He reached over the fire to hand me a bottle. I took it without a word, making my way back towards the tree line. There was no more opposition.

Smoke billowed around the two men as they stared down at their cards, fiddling with piles of chips. Neither of them looked up, though the one on the right spoke, unamused. 

“What do you mean he didn't reset?” 

There was a young girl standing over him. She looked as though she was ready to burst. She stared intently into his eyes that refused to meet hers. 

“YOU didn't reset him. Take him back, I'm not dealing with this.” 

He scoffed, pushing another pile of chips to the pile. He leaned further back, looking towards, yet past her. 

“That's impossible, we were all there. He died and went on.” He was curt. “Did he not?” 

The girl did not hesitate. 

“What exactly do you think your job is? He needs to be reset as he is moving through. Why else would we be here?” 

The attention was hers now, the second man warning her through narrowed eyes. She stood firm over the man, unafraid. 

“You want to tell me I'm doing my job wrong because you can't handle one of yours?” He shook his head, although he was insolent he appeared genuinely confused. 

“Mine or not, you did not reset him. How am I supposed to guide him through without a clean slate? You are not in habit of having hoppers, are you?” 

“That boy is not a hopper.” 

“Then tell me why he woke up in a field yesterday, 21 years old?” 

The two men exchanged a nod as the silent one took his leave. The girl sat in his place as they carefully discussed the situation. 

I was 19 when I joined the Garrison in Weston. I had heard rumors about the opposing Captain and how he intended to take the state for himself. Particular opinions didn't matter at that point. The mere fact he felt entitled to control was enough to push back. 

I had left two loving parents and a little sister at home behind me. It wasn't as hard as it should've been. Though, I think of them now. Laying on my back next to the same field I had landed this morning. I don't know what happened or where I am, I only know where I am not. How long has it been? 

The humidity could've drowned me itself if I had let it. The air sat heavily, pushing me further into the earth I so desperately wished I would be encased by. The arms of ghosts reached out, grasping at me willing me to go down with them. I let them do as they wished. 

If I listened hard enough I could hear the lake. It wouldn't be too far now. Under it, the sound of whispers. I suspected the ghosts of those lost weren't my only company, though I wasn't sure if it was my new acquaintances or those of the lake. 

A stream of conscious thoughts is often challenged by the subconscious. Whether it be exhaustion or delirium, I had started to hear my thoughts speaking to me instead. 

I knew it was over, but they told me to listen. I was silent. You must sing. I must sleep. You must get up. It was a silly argument. 

If it weren’t for the men I had met at the bright house. I would've considered myself a ghost. Physically, I had been healed. It was possible I wasn't injured in the battle but I remembered so clearly. 

My gun was ripped away. The short grunt from my opposer was then followed by an immediate rush of warmth. Another cry, and he fell to the ground first. 

Or, maybe I had dropped my gun when I was staring at the man on the ground. I suppose I didn't remember. 

Fighting sleep came naturally, so I tossed the idea around. 

“Not today, at least.” 

What could he have meant by that? Neither side of this fight would’ve left me on the battlefield for so long. Bodies would’ve been buried in their places, mine included. Though I can't guarantee I would've been treated if the enemy had won, I do know they would've at least buried me alive. 

But surviving in a coma-like state for long enough that my gash healed with no scar? It wasn't possible. The blood was still cold and wet on my shirt when I got up. 

I couldn’t make sense of it. 

Eventually, sleep, or the ghosts, got a hold of me. I woke with the first chirps of birds above. They must be gathering breakfast for their young. The trees were thick this time of year, making it impossible to locate the nests. It was an unexpected disappointment, though not the cause, a few tears rolled down the sides of my face.  I rolled to my side, staring down the clearing. I had spent the night inside of the tree line, scared if I dozed off in the field I would awaken in combat. 

The meadow had large patches of yellow and orange marigolds strewn throughout. Beams of morning light shined through the trees onto the patches, effectively setting the meadow ablaze. I got up slowly, my eyes fixated on the larger of the plots, almost to the other edge of the clearing. I walked to them slowly, being sure not to trample any other flowers on my way. 

When a body is buried in the earth and decomposes into the soil, it essentially fertilizes it. We are warned as boys if we ever get into a fatal brawl to never bury a body in plain grass, as the mound will stand out. The grass will grow differently. The soil will welcome weeds and flowers. You will know someone lay beneath. 

I sat as I did before, flat on my knees, staring before me. A long patch from side to side. A long one crossing it at the top. The men I had seen yesterday. 

The patch I sat in now fit perfectly. Long marigold stems framed my sides, ending at my boots. It's as if they were trying to hug me. Perhaps they knew I needed it. I closed my eyes, lifting my head towards the sun, waiting patiently to become one. 

I heard the crack of branches and hurried footsteps. I anticipated the sound of gunfire or metal being unsheathed. With my arms crossed tightly, I remembered to pray. 

Make it quick this time, will you?

“Is that where you were?” Michael spoke loudly. “Or, was it a friend?” 

“Now is not the time.” I opened my eyes. Michael walked to the edge of my patch and sat on his knees as I did. As the soldier did before. 

“Looks like you fit quite well. Did you figure it out yet?” He asked. 

“No.” I lifted my arm across to my shoulder. It was an unconscious movement, to protect my heart and stomach. 

“I'm going to tell you plainly. I think at this point it'll be easier for both of us, I don't know.” His usual look of pity was replaced with concern. “I think you time traveled.” 

“Oh, that's believable,” I said curtly. Though, it was believable. I had been told stories of soldiers that come and went. And not just them, but of elderly and family friends labeled “lost to time”. I suspected it was a simple way to explain death to a child, but the gossip remained far into my teenage years. It held a weight to it that produced hushed tones and pinched faces. 

“But you know it is. That's the simple answer, right? The battle for state control, I'm sure it wasn't named in your time. It was in 1756. It's not 1756.” Michael talked to me as though I was 8 years old. I felt him toying with me and I wouldn’t entertain him. 

“It's 2006.” He waited, but I did not respond. “I'm sorry.” 

I believed him. 

I let out a laugh, then started sobbing. The tears came fast, like a river high in the mountains. They were warm and wet, soaking my shirt almost immediately. My neck itched and my head pounded. I grasped at the flowers in front of me. Fists full of dirt, stems, clothing, my hair. I cried and screamed and he sat there and watched me. 

I felt as though I could never get it out. Something was inside of me clawing to get out. It burned my chest, ripping a hole through my stomach. My intestines twisted and cramped. I could feel every drop of blood coursing through my veins. It would've been less painful to die, and at that point, I wanted nothing more. 

Grief washed over me wave after wave. Still sitting on my knees, I lowered my head to the ground, hands clasped behind my head. I could taste the dirt and still, the smell of blood. 

I wasn't supposed to die that day. No one was. The captains agreed to meet in the clearing, as there was word of surrender. The enemy captain was known to be manipulative, a man of talk. It surprised no one when he rumored surrender before blood was drawn. He was scared. 

Or so we thought. We entered the clearing early, where the opposing regiment already stood. We were all outfitted, arms at ease. There wasn’t supposed to be a fight. 

The captain drew his sword, took a knee, and then stabbed it straight through my captain's belly. 

No one understood at first. Some had not loaded their guns, some were standing in shock. There were boys in my regiment just 15 years old. They didn't know. We were in town to protect against these people until they let up, a symbol of protection and peace. All we were meant to do was stand watch and relay messages. We weren't meant to fight. 

The enemy reached us with swords before most could think to draw their knives. The enemy captain was already past the tree line. 

I don't know how long it was before Michael came next to me, rubbing his hand across my back. 

“Let me help you.”