Chapter Text
Al often wondered how he ended up overseas in a literal trench. He leaned against the wall of the trench, sipping the bitter water. It probably had contaminants galore. It wasn’t pretty, a brownish color, but he sipped it nevertheless. He didn’t mind. It was water, at least, which he needed, despite the possible sickness he would get. Truthfully, he didn’t really care if he got sick. Going to a medical hut for a few days was better than the damn trench he was forced to sit in 24/7.
He swallowed the water, wetting his tongue and throat. He set the cup down, then sighed, sitting beside it. He took out his pocket knife, looking around. Most of the other men up and down the trench were either sleeping or keeping watch. Al looked down at his knife. He wondered if he was still alive, or if he got shot long ago and was in a perpetual hell. Nobody paid him any mind. So Al opened his knife. He let out a breath. Ever since he came to the army, nothing was familiar. His deployment caused more harm than good. He had no idea when he signed up that it would be so hard to leave home. How could he have known that home, despite all of its horribleness, would be the one thing that was familiar and safe. Now, his life was so unpredictable that he couldn’t barely stand it.
He moved the knife around in his hand, sliding it gently across his skin. The blade wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. He remembered when he first got the knife at 16, how he had accidentally cut his hand on the blade doing the exact motion he was doing now. He slid it across his skin just right, causing a small cut at the bottom of his palm, near his thumb. He hummed. That hadn’t hurt. Once more, he wondered if he was even still alive. Deciding to find out, he turned his wrist, to face upward, then pushed the knife in at an angle, sliding it across.
It stung.
He took in a sharp breath, but at least he knew he was still alive. Pain. It was the one consistent thing he had. He made a few more small cuts along his wrist, relishing in the pain. The sting of the skin being sliced and the coolness of the blood drying on his skin. He let out a breath, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and tying it around his wrist. Many soldiers did that. He had always wondered why. Now, he had a reason to do it too, even if it wasn’t the same as theirs.