Edema Rue

Ok I also put this in my creator's corner, but I like it. It's written from the perspective of a prisoner of war (in my mind, during the American Revolutionary War, since it was learning about that that made me write it.

In the Ship:

I am surrounded by death; I breathe it in; it is smeared on my face and my arms. It is in my food, in my drink. It is in the smell that never leaves. It is in the darkness of a place that has never seen the sun, and never will. I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again. I don’t think I will. I remember, when I was younger, my brother got smallpox. My mama all but kicked me out of the house, trying to keep me from catching it. It worked. I wonder what she’d think to see me here, now, covered in the oozing blisters. 

There are so many ways to pop a blister. You never really notice it, when you only have one or two. But when there are dozens of them…you can press your nail against it, neatly slicing the skin on top and allowing the pus to trickle out in a smooth  line. Or you can pinch the edges, putting pressure onto it until all at once it bursts, the yellow fluid splattering out over your hand. Or you can rip the skin from the top, leaving a small puddle of goo with nothing to hold it there. It’s nice, the ability to pop my own blisters. They used to keep us in shackles. Then there were too many of us, and they decided it was too much work to take them off the corpses. I wanted to fight when they took mine off. I started to stand and fell, right on my face. It was a long time before I had the energy to sit up again…

There is a rat gnawing on my toe. I didn’t realize it was my toe, at first. There are so many corpses, I sometimes forget I’m not one of them. Sometimes have trouble telling the different feet apart. I’m…I’m not one of them. Mama once told me that all soldier boys go to Heaven, on account of their going through Hell every day they were alive. And this boat, this is Hell. So if I were dead, I wouldn’t be here anymore. The rat is still gnawing on my toe. There’s a lot more blood, now. Scritch, scratch. Little rodent teeth grinding against my bone. I think that it should hurt. Doesn’t it hurt? I don’t think it hurts. When I was a boy, I stubbed my toe. Nearly cried, too. Now I don’t have any more toe to stub, but I don’t think I can cry. Scritch, scratch. The rat is looking at me now. Its eyes are so black. Nothing should have black eyes. Eyes are how you can tell something’s alive, only not with rats. Rats are dead, even while they still walk around.

But then, I guess us soldiers are the same way. So maybe we should be the ones with black eyes. We walk around long after we're dead. And then we remember, and our hearts stop beating. I remember the first corpse I ever saw. It was only a year ago. Was it really only a year ago? There have been so many, now. It didn’t have black eyes. It was a boy, barely 15 and about as stupid as I was. Both of us. We joined up the same day, thinking we were saving our families. All it took was one bullet. One bullet to his head, and he dropped. His eyes were brown, I think. I didn’t realize he was dead until I saw his eyes. Eyes are where the life is. Mama used to say that she fell in love with Papa the first time she saw his eyes. I almost wish I had a mirror. I wonder if my eyes are still alive, or if I’m only a corpse with a beating heart. Scritch, scratch. The rat is leaving. It must not be hungry anymore. I’m not hungry, either. The bread they threw in last night is next to me, in a puddle of excrement. Mine, or another corpse’s? I don’t know. I can’t tell. 

Maybe that’s how we’re fighting back. We’re stinking up their ships. The wood down here is all stained a deep red, nearly black. Some of it is completely warped out of shape. They’ll never be able to use this boat for anything but prisoners. Or corpses. Which are we? I can’t quite remember.

It doesn’t smell anymore. I don’t know why. It used to smell so bad, my eyes would water every breath I took. When the guards come, with water or looking for corpses, they still cover their faces. One of them vomited when he came down. They never cleaned it up. It’s still on the floor. Some of it splattered on my leg. But it’s their fault it smells so bad; they can’t tell which of us are dead, and which ones aren’t. I’m not dead. But the men next to me are. One of them died three days ago. They still throw him bread. Bread isn’t going to help him. A rat ate his eye, though, so maybe they aren’t sure. It’s hard to tell, without his eye. I watched the whole thing, though, so I know. I saw that his eyes were dead before I saw the rat climb up his shoulder. It wasn’t my rat; this one was smaller. A lot smaller. It was just the right size that, once it finished with his eye, it could crawl into the socket and sleep, tail hanging down the man’s bloody cheek.

I wonder if my rat will do that when I am dead. Or maybe before. I don’t have many toes left for it, you see. Poor thing. I wouldn’t want it going hungry. Maybe the guards should throw bread to the rats; Lord knows they’ll live longer than we will.

Lord…Lord knows…I hope the Lord will not be angry with me for missing church on the Sabbath. He will understand, won’t He? Mama always said He understood all things. But I don’t think the Lord ever went to Hell. I don’t think He’s ever been to this ship. I’m glad He hasn’t. In all those paintings, He looked like such a sweet little baby. This is not a place God should see. 

My rat is back. It’s on my stomach now. It’s a good thing I don’t have a shirt. Fabric doesn’t taste as good as meat, see, and I wouldn’t want the rat going hungry.

I would like to see the sun before I go. Mostly, though, I’d like to see my Mama. I think I mostly joined to see her proud smile.

I’d like to see that smile again.