The War at the End of the World
Page 4
Damn, I hope I'm not blushing.
"Yes. And I'll bring you some books and magazines next time I come." I'm already pulling them off the shelf in my mind, ranking them in the order of their likely intellectual and aesthetic appeal, assigning Joe-ratings.
"I'd really like that."
The PA system blares out a code. I'm gone from his bedside in a flash. My hand is still warm from his. Focus on the job. He'll be there. He's safe, he's found.
December 1941
Blood. I can feel it. It's warm. Joseph's blood. Not long now.
I don't want to go.
For some reason, Joseph smiles, and now the blood runs down his chin. His eyes are bright, though. I look at his eyes. Nothing but his eyes.
He can see me. It's time.
He speaks to me, again and for the last time. His lips move, but no sound comes out, so I move closer, and closer still, until I can feel the radiant warmth of the blood in his mouth, and the ineffectual wheeze of the last air leaving his lungs.
"I know what you are," he says, again, and I don't know if he even remembers the first time, and maybe it doesn't matter, because it was always coming to this. Death works through me. I have no life of my own. I never will.
Joseph's hand guides my face until our gazes meet again. "Hey. Don't be afraid. If this isn't... If this isn't the end, then I'll find you."
And then he tilts his jaw up, nudging his mouth against mine.
This can't be the end.
September 1965
I wake up from one of my dying dreams, this time fighting the strange, sad urge to wipe sticky blood from my lips.
This can't be the end.
What does it mean? A line from a song? A poem? Something from the piles of notebooks stacked on the bedside table, the desk, the radiator?
A hand touches my shoulder.
"Lie down," Joe mumbles, patting his palm clumsily down to my chest and trying to push me back from where I've sat up. "...Pulled the blanket off me s'too cold. Go back to sleep."
"Cold? It's not cold. You Americans..." I give up trying to remember my dream. I'd much rather be here, now, with Joe. Finally, I flop back into bed, savoring the warmth of Joe's body as he nuzzles against me and settles back into sleep.
This can't be the end.
I touch the round curve of Joe's ear. Brush the hair back from his brow and press a kiss to his temple, smiling a little smugly to myself.
And it isn't.
About the Authors
Heidi Belleau was born and raised in small town New Brunswick, Canada. She now lives in the rugged oil-patch frontier of Northern BC with her husband, an Irish ex-pat whose long work hours in the trades leave her plenty of quiet time to write. She has a degree in History from Simon Fraser University with a concentration in British and Irish studies; much of her work centred on popular culture, oral folklore, and sexuality, but she was known to perplex her professors with unironic papers on the historical roots of modern romance novel tropes. (Ask her about Highlanders!) When not writing, you might catch her trying to explain British television to her newborn daughter.
You can find her tweeting as @HeidiBelleau, email her at heidi.below.zero@gmail.com, or visit her blog: http://heidi-below-zero.blogspot.com.
Violetta Vane grew up a drifter and a third culture kid who eventually put down roots in the Southeast US, although her heart lives somewhere along the Pacific coast of Mexico. She's worked in restaurants, strip clubs, academia and the corporate world and studied everything from the philosophy of science to queer theory to medieval Spanish literature. She homeschools her eldest son and has a passion for political activism. You can find her blogging at http://violettavane.blogspot.com.