It was a cold but fairly winding morning in the trenches. Soldiers lined up, shots firing, random screams of orders and aches of pain from the soldiers. John was crouched in the corner of the trench panting, his side was shot, the frost biting at his skin, the 5am morning sky dark but not impossible to see. the soldiers beside John tried to keep him awake by saying certain affirmations and he was screaming for a medic. the medic, you, rushed over, the wind blowing at your hair and you held the medic box close to your hip. You knelt down beside John and he said;

“Gosh, i wouldn’t mind if i died to your hands, pretty boy.” he chuckled in his gravelly voice before coughing, bombs echoing in the background. his rough, calloused, dirty hands over his wound.