Made Me Cry - Blog Posts

THANK YOU @qibsichan and @nebu-lime for creating Fufu I love them and I cannot Belived I got double attacked on the same day😂 on are fight

But seriously thank you Qibs and Nebu for these are works I love them to death. I’m kinda jealous they made it better than the original even though I did made the og simple because it was 9:30 at night when I started making her

I’ll leave links to Qibs and nebu after fight page as well as my own and thanks to both of you again I want to hug the crap out of both you you <3 🫂

I also cried when I saw them because I was that happy

Mine : https://artfight.net/~Calebtsm

Qibsichan: https://artfight.net/~qibsichan

Nebu-lime: https://artfight.net/~Nebu-lime

“How dare you. I was peacefully resting, and you dropped me off the side of the bed? Not fair, man. Not fair at all.”

Now, when the public thinks of a man, they think of deep, heavy chuckles that resemble that of an earthquake. However, Soap giggled like a little girl on steroids.

Still smiling, he wraps his arms around your waist and leaves kisses into the skin of your neck. “I’m sorry, my lovie. I didn’t mean to drop you.”

You sniff and pretend to be haughty by crossing your arms. But he can tell that it’s not the reality when your hand rises and rests on his cheek. Obliging, John continues to whisper adorations into whatever skin he can get his mouth on until he can see a smile curl itself on your lips.

His whiskers tickle the sensitive flesh, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Not after having been away from him for so long.

The mission required one day of preparation, allowing both of you some time to take a small break. There was much paperwork to be done, but just enough that it didn’t encroach on your time together.

The whole day could be spent together, apart from the hours of briefing and prep.

You sat on a separate aircraft with your squadron, preparing for a drop off on the outer ring of the forest to prepare for stragglers trying to escape. They would be picked off quickly and cleanly and then you would return back to base, hopefully successful.

The mission went spectacularly well, with the recovery of Captain Price. It was clear that Soap had missed the captain very much, especially when he handed over his favored pistol. He had told you a bit of his history with the captain, explaining how the captain had taken him under his wing and treated him like a son. The 1911 was physical evidence of everything he detailed.

The captain had found you about a week later to thank you for your help. He patted your shoulder when you said that it was just your job. “I know. But you’ve done more for me than you could know.”

He disappeared around the corner and moments later, Soap rounded out of the darkness. He held his head high though the last week had been strenuous. “Did you hear all of that?” you asked. Playfully, Soap bumped his shoulder into you.

“Of course. Price keeps trying to get out of the hospital during his walks. They’ve told the old bastard that he needs to slow down and take it easy, but he doesn’t seem to care.”

You sighed. “The captain is a shark. If he stops moving, he won’t know what to do with himself. I’m guessing this is his most recent attempt to get out.”

Soap groaned, “Yes. The medical staff has been trying to keep him contained, but I think his brain is still in defense after the gulag.”

He grew stoic. “Price had been there for so long…I wasn’t able to stop what they did to him.”

You rub his shoulder with heavy empathy. Your own mentor had been captured and was never seen again when the search parties were sent. His sons and daughter told you that they didn’t hate you for what happened to him, but his wife couldn’t even look at you on the day of the funeral.

“What do you say you and I will go out for some food tonight? Any restaurant that you want to visit is where we’ll go,” you say. His regular cocky smile comes back up full force and you see his spirits rise almost instantly.

“As long as you’re buying. We’ll meet tonight at my house but for right now, I need to go find Price.”

He walks past you and a rush of cold air swirls against you.

Then the world went to hell.

Ghost and Roach were killed and all contact with Sandman and his crew was lost. They were assumed to be MIA, but too little was known at the time. All while you were in France, Price had screamed out to you that Shephard was not to be trusted and in a matter of seconds, two of your own soldiers turned on you. You managed to down both traitors with the help of your fellow men, but not without being tagged as an enemy to Shadow Company.

Fortunately, you had an ex-pilot in your three men, and he found a spare helicopter for you to get to the Middle East as soon as possible to regroup. You would never thank Shephard, but you were grateful that he did not have any forethought about how his action of forcing you to drag soldiers back out into the field would benefit you. But the comms crackled and through them, you heard an awful sound.

A sickly crunch of bone under the compressive force of a bolo knife and the groans of the whipping wind rung in the tight box of the helicopter.

Soap was stabbed brutally in the chest by Shephard. You could hear rushing blood in your ears and you almost lost the cool facade of a captain. Your grip tightened on the stock of your rifle.

You could imagine the worst, him bleeding out in a dust storm on the other side of the world. Price would take care of him, surely. But the captain was an older man and would not be able to protect Soap from Shepherd for long. You had to hurry.

The remaining two men that weren’t pilots watched you jerkily pace to call for the pilot to move faster. “I’m going as fast as I can!” he exclaimed. You clenched your fist into a tight grip and swore when you came to the realization that if Shepherd didn’t die now, you would hunt him down and destroy him the same way he did to Soap.

Four minutes later, Price was radioing in. John was still alive and he had killed Shephard. A calm blew into the tense hull of the helicopter, both of your remaining soldiers slumping over a bit. The adrenaline high was falling, but your fear reminded you to stay ready.

Nearly fourteen hours after plane hopping multiple times, you touch down in India. Raging bullets fly throughout the city, whizzing into the helicopter’s armor. Your pilot lands at the point where Nikolai reported the stop was at and before the helicopter lands, you’re already on your feet.

You hopped out and Nikolai had rushed to get your remaining forces inside. “Where is he, Nikolai? Tell me,” you charged. He looked frazzled. “Price is waiting for you outside the operating room.”

Without much word, you had hurried away, running down the crammed halls of the holdout. Whizzing past you were hundreds of eyes widening in fear of being trampled and voices yelling out in indignation, urging you forward.

You heard the captain before you saw him. Yelling out orders to any soldiers without tasks, he took complete charge. When he saw you, however, his distraught expression changed. Unlike any of the other soldiers, he hobbled as quickly as he could to meet you halfway. With two blackened eyes and enough bruises covering the majority of his skin, Price looked damn near dead.

“What’s happened?” you cried to him. He explained to you on your way to the makeshift hospital that Shephard had gone after them because “we knew too much.” In anger, you nearly grabbed the captain by his shirt and screamed in his face that that was hardly a reason for anyone to go after your beloved and your friends. Instead, you settled for squeezing the holt of your pistol like it was responsible for your pain.

The hall ended near where three old chairs sat unoccupied. Price gestured towards two wide doors before speaking. “That’s the room, love. They’ve been working all night.” He turned to speak into the comm which crackled with gunfire and yells. Before turning to rush down the hall, the captain puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll be out soon.” With that in mind, he left you to wait.

The waiting gave you time to think, to think of the possibilities of what could be, of what will be after all was done. Like a caged tigress, you paced back and forth outside the operating room. No one dared to stop you.

When the surgeons came out dragging their feet across the floor, your heart dropped through the floor. Without hesitance, you raced to the head doctor’s side and begged him to tell you whether or not your Johnny was still alive or not.

He nodded. You nearly fell to your knees in gratitude, but managed to keep it together when they began to move his bed to a room down the hall. Instinctually, you should have seen the foreshadowing when you followed behind the procession of nurses silently, but it didn’t strike you then.

In the cramped room, you got a much better look at him once the nurses left. The center of John’s chest was covered in gauze and medical tape, a light pink blossoming underneath. Bruises and cuts covered what else you could see of his body and face. Weeping wasn’t normal for you, at least not around others besides your family. However at this moment, you couldn’t stop yourself and the welled up emotions made you tremble.

Burying your face in your hands, you had cried at his sleeping side well into the night, only pausing when Price came to check on Soap. He had pulled up a chair next to you, apologizing for not being able to come sooner. Thin flesh colored bandages covered the cuts on his face. He looked worse than you had ever seen him, but ignored it to not make him self conscious. The captain wasn’t a man of many words, only speaking when he felt he needed to. But, if he knew that his appearance made you uncomfortable, he would make it very clear that he wasn’t here for you anyways.

You’d prefer to have him with you anyways.

With the consistent hum of Soap’s many monitors, the captain began to drift against the wall. He was quiet, but you noticed his flinching like he was being beaten or electrocuted.

You did your best to slip your own jacket off without disturbing the captain, careful not to move too quickly while removing your bulletproof vest. Cautiously covering him with it, you watched Price tuck his head inward to the warm coat. For a second, he looked more like a tired old man rather than a feared military captain.

Instead of resting, you quietly walked to the window. The land around the base was in chaos. Fires shone brightly throughout the city and many of the windows in the buildings were dark, but up above a brilliant blanket of stars covered the world.

A groan came from the bed and you looked over your shoulder to see John stirring. His eyes rolled back and forth underneath his swollen eyelids and you perched yourself at his side. Like a frog, his legs stretch out to their full length to flex the wound up muscles. He attempts to try to do his arms too, but his fingers tremble as he tries.

They fall limp at the sides of the bed, so you lift them back up to rest on his stomach. Soap’s as pale as a ghost and his forehead is coated in sweat. Though he’s not moving much anymore, his face is still contorted in a grotesque expression of pain.

You’re not a nurse. Never would be in this lifetime, at least. But, you do have enough training and first aid experience to determine that wiping his face would be okay. Tenderly, you take a small tissue dampened with water from a nearby faucet and begin to clean the exposed bits of his visage. Some of your tears fall and wet the bandages on Soap’s chest and you do your best to stop crying.

When you’ve finished there, you wash your hands and run your fingers through his hair. Your hands are cold and dry, a contrast from the warm clamminess of his body. With the limited amount of medicine around, you really hope that he doesn’t get an infection.

Exhausted from the events of the day, you slide off into a chair beside the bed and allow your mind to run itself to sleep.

Price wakes you up in the morning. It is not an easy rising because you have to hurry to your next position in fending off the invading armies. However, you’re allowed to return that night when he flutters into consciousness.

-

When Soap awoke, he did his best to center on a point in the ceiling.

“How long have I been out?” he asked. You leaned closer to say, “Don’t worry about that right now. Just try to rest. Please.” Snapping to attention at your voice, he tries to focus. You can tell that he’s struggling by the flutter of his eyelids.“You’re here…but how?” he asks.

Gently, you reached for his hand and brought it up to your cheek. “I survived Shephard’s men turning on me. We stole a helicopter and flew here after Price informed us about what happened. You’ve been in surgery for the past fifteen hours.”

John’s calloused thumb rubs through your lashes as he turns the thought over in his drug induced mind. His eyes widened when he figured it out and two heavy arms lashed out to pull your face against his. Planting your hands on the bed to prevent him from dragging you down, you hold your weight to stop him from being hurt. Between the frantic kisses, he muttered to you, “You’re …you’re here.”

You kissed him one more time before responding, “I would always come back to you. Don’t even think for a second that I wouldn’t.” He did his best to glue you to his side but in his drowsy state, he couldn’t move more than a little bit without contorting in pain.

You pulled away from his grip and returned to the chair beside the bed. “No, John. The wound is too fresh.” Pouting like a child, he dramatically tosses his head to look away from you. You sigh, but thank the heavens that at least this little bit of his personality stayed intact.

All at once, exhaustion drowned every desire to do anything more and you laid your head down on the side of the bed. Soap starred as you did so, watching while his blue eyes drooped and he fell asleep under the influence of his drugs. You don’t remember what happened next, but you do recall feeling the calmest you’ve felt in a long time.

Nearly a month and a half later, the remainder of the disavowed Task Force 141 had been allowed to start work again around the old Soviet base. John spoke with the surgeon, reassuring him that he was ready, though the surgeon was adamant about not sending him out again.

So, Captain Price came up with an alternate plan to bypass all of the surgeon’s warnings. Soap would be sent out on small jobs, not fully inducing him into the mindless blood soaked hills of the battlefield. He would have to learn how to operate again.

Not to mention, the countries of the world were still hunting you all down and to protect yourself, you would have to keep moving.

It bothered you quite a bit. Obviously, stabs as deep as this need time to heal and seal the cavity within. But Price assured you that Soap was safe and was slowly healing and John himself assured you that he wanted nothing more than to be out and about again.

They were wrong. John had been thrown back into the fray too hastily when the surface of the wound had barely started to heal. You had seen it when he removed his shirt to change clothing. The skin was still too pink and he hissed when something brushed against it too hard.

That was the reason why he died.

You didn’t hate that he made this decision for himself; you knew he knew what he wanted, though the logical part of you knew you should have begged him not to push it.

If you hadn’t been separated from the group, you could have saved his life. Could have done something.

Price blamed himself for Soap’s death more than anything, though. He was there with him the whole time and suffered for it. The Captain had never apologized, but expressed his sorrow through an act of contrition of watching over you. You knew that he did it for Soap and not for you, but you hoped that he would also come to care for you too.

A whole lifetime had passed since you had admitted that you wanted to build on your relationship. Together, you had built a world of beauty and wonder, but now that John was gone, you weren’t sure what to do now that your dreams had crumbled.

Your legs had started to go numb from sitting on the floor for so long and your back was starting to hurt, so you stood to stretch out.

The radio chirped multiple times. For about ten minutes, you had been sitting there not moving and now the nurse thought you were dead.

“I’m here. Just stopped for a moment,” you proclaimed. The team let out a deep breath, “Oh, good. We were worried that you were out.”

You paused. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”

The wood of the windows creaked in the bright heat of the sun.

Before you walked out the door never to return again, you glanced back at John’s body. He looked as if he were asleep, but you knew he would never awake again.

You knelt to say goodbye.

“I don’t want to do this. I’m so mad at you for leaving me. But, you need to rest and I’m not going to be with you for some time,” you told him, eyes burning. “I will miss you. I don’t know how you did it, but you found your way into my heart and I let you carve out a space for yourself. You have changed me. For better or worse, I don’t know. And I find that I don’t care.”

With a heavy heart, you stood and kissed the cold skin of his forehead. “I love you. I always will,” you whispered to him.

Your hand laid on his as you stepped away, every pace towards the door ripping a wider hole in your soul. The sun blazed into your unguarded eyes and a breeze blew through the square. But before you could step out, you turned back one last time. Bright tears rolled down your cheeks, soaking into the dusty wooden flooring.

For a moment, you questioned your own fortitude. Could you really leave all of this behind, knowing that you had felt something so ardent that it could only be equated to nirvana? But a bloom of bravery and hope bled itself into the cracks of your heart. If you didn’t walk out this door now, you would run back to your dead soldier’s body and languish in this old house. He wanted you to live. And living wouldn’t happen here. So you walked out into the street and stood watching a dragonfly twitter on a tilted telephone pole.

Beauty still managed to exist here despite the ugliness of humanity. That was a miracle unto itself.

You sat down on the busted hood of a car, marking the point on the map for a dead body. In a click, the comms buzzed under your hand to communicate. “Awaiting at Point S for evac. I have a dead 141 soldier with me in need of a body bag.”

The radio crackled and in the background, you could hear the rumble of the medical caravan echoing through the quiet city.

The comms went silent and you basked in the warmth of the sun contrasted by the cool breeze. There wasn’t much to do but sit and wait, so that’s what you did.

Out of the corner of your eye, the nurse ambled into the square, two cans resting in their gloved hands.

“Look at what I found,” they call. They hold up both hands to show two preserved jars of jam. You slide down a little bit. “Where’d you find those?”

They give you a full mouthed smile before showing you the cartoonish labels. “I found them in that old hotel over there. There’s a pantry full of food that’s still okay to eat. Do you think we can let the other medics know when they get here?”

You nod and take the proffered jar from their hands. The glass hadn’t shattered, in some miraculous stroke of luck and you ran your fingers over the grooves making a design on the side.

Strawberry. A typical favorite for many in normal times, but a rarity now. Nobody you knew had the time to grow them regularly, and the price for them became steep.

A loud pop echoed through the square and you startled up. The nurse had opened their can of jam and was now happily digging through their satchel for an issued spoon.

Once they had it, they scooped some of the near completely black jelly and shoved it into their mouth. A great big sigh of joy echoed as they had a taste of something that they hadn’t had in a long time.

They shared the glass jar with you and you also pulled out your spoon. Passing it back and forth, the two of you shared the blackberry jam as you waited for the trucks to come and get you.

When the caravan pulled into the square, the head medic got out and beckoned for you to come.

“Are there any civilians or survivors?” he asks. “Yes, but they’re soldiers and are mobile,” you say. “They’re headed towards the base, so tell your guards not to fire on them.”

He nods, assuring you that they will be taken care of. You start to walk away to help in packaging the dead and make it about half the distance that you traveled from the building to the hood before the medic calls to you.

The medic motions towards a vehicle near the entrance of the center that was still turned on. His voice raised, he cried, “Price called in. He’s waiting for you in Paris.”

You nod and board the carrier back to the base. As your driver begins to pull out, you watch as the nurse turns to wave goodbye and you send a small smile their way.

The driver mutters something about being tired to their neighbor in the front and they continue towards the base. As they continue along the road, you tug at your fingers and look out the window. Though you would be cleaning the majority of the time that you were with Price, you were still anxious to see him again.

•

Paris was just as pretty as you remembered, even if it was in shambles. Through the window of your troop transport, you could see the open fields blend into the city limits, and the sheep that ran at the dragonfly hum of the helicopter.

The scene was almost too nostalgic to not be shared with anyone, especially not with Soap. You thought about the store with the white dress. Would it still be there even after the attacks? Maybe it was. Either way, you would find out sooner or later.

The carrier touched down at the airbase and the small figure of Price approached at a reasonable speed.

As the bay doors opened, you paused to look back at the window that displayed the green field behind you. The captain called, “Are you ready?”

You nod at him and draw your attention down to the hand holding the stock of your rifle. For so long, you had waited to come back to this place, but never alone. Now you’re here, but for a completely unrelated reason than what you originally wanted to come back for.

“I’m ready.” Price grabs the separate bag that sits by your feet as he walks up. To not startle you, he nudged your side gently. “Let’s go then.”

He walks down and you follow with a heavy heart.

-

Returning home was bittersweet. You found your parents and your siblings all still alive, and you promised that together you would help to rebuild a new home. They were happy about that, but even more so, they were proud that their child had survived through many hardships that they would most likely never know about. They could still see that something weighed heavily on your shoulders and did their best to support you in getting back to the UK.

Your family was concerned how you would do on your own, especially when you received a message from Captain Price inviting you back for the funerals of Ghost, Roach, and Soap. Your family made sure that you were aware that you could always come back to them before you left. You assured them that you would be alright.

There wasn’t much of anything of your personal items that you needed to take back home with you, so the bag with your civilian things was relatively light compared to all of your combat gear. You would be taking it back with you, though you wanted nothing more than to abandon it in an alleyway somewhere.

From the airport, the long drive towards your destination began as the skies opened up. The storm cast a gloomy ambience over the Scottish countryside as you pulled into the driveway of your simple home.

When you made it home to your little house, you did your best not to dwell on the dust covering the shelves and cabinets. Nobody had touched this place in a long time. A very long time indeed when you looked at the calendar that had marked when your last deployment would be.

The cottage was quiet apart from the wind and rain, and you found that you hated it. It would take some time to get used to being alone, but you could do it. Just take care of yourself and it would all be okay. You started by doing your best to clean. That wasn’t easy.

Besides there being huge dust bunnies everywhere, small critters had found their way in and made themselves at home. The two apples that were left on the kitchen counter swarmed with rot and fruit flies, so you threw the whole basket holding them away.

Every part of the house had to be scrubbed and polished and without a doubt, would take at least a week. A schedule for what to tackle each day was drawn and you paused when you remembered the closet.

That would involve the most crying, so you set it for the coming Friday.

•

This neighborhood you lived in had not been hit by bombs or gunfire, but the people were dramatically affected by the war. Children played in the street together, but would scatter if something loud came close. The adults weren’t in much better shape either. They too had seen the horror of war and would stay up late into the night, unable to sleep or dream. Dreaming was meant for a happier time.

Still, they labored in bringing fresh food to the marketplace that you wandered through. Piles of sweet apples, cartons of berries, and tables of fresh bread were scattered through. It was the most food that you had seen in a long time. Purchasing a rather thick loaf of bread, you place it in your bag and continue onward. Two young boys chattered to each other as they walked past you and you paused to scan the scene. These two smiled and laughed at a joke the other made. The world was starting to heal again.

•

Price met you on the day before the funeral for Simon and Gary at a peaceful park closer to where he and Mrs. Price had now retired. He had been slowly healing, looking drastically less thin than the last time you saw him. But his steps were a bit slower and his voice was quieter when he spoke.

“Good to see you back. Are you ready to go?” You walked with him towards the park you both would be tracing. “Yes.”

A semi comfortable silence settled over the two of you. On one hand, the two of you had suffered so much and to bring it up would cause pain to the other. But, on the other, there were questions and many things that needed to be said.

So for the sake of your friend, you extended an olive branch.

“Have you been doing okay?” you say quietly.

He looked at you, crows feet furrowed more heavily than ever.

“I’m alright. How about you?”

You watch the green pond where multicolored mallards clean themselves.

“Okay. Just not sure what comes next.”

He hummed. Captain Price was not one for small talk but it seemed even he was not sure how to approach what needed to be said.

“What will you do now that it’s over?” you ask.

Price keeps walking, but says, “I’m not really sure yet.”

He looked thoughtful, but tired too.

“I think I would like to just rest for a while. I’ve grown old and haven’t held a normal job in a long time. I don’t even know what constitutes normal anymore.”

You nod in agreement and look out over the pond. The ancient willow trees circling the pool whispered with the breeze and you looked to a nearby field where a group of workers picked the rich peaches of the orchard and dumped them into wide baskets.

Price carefully spoke, “And what will you do?”

You turned to sadly smile at him as the pavement began to climb up a hill.

“Not sure. Might go pursue one of my other interests. But I do agree that some time to rest would be nice. Lord knows we’ve earned it.”

Price nods and at the top of the hill, he pauses to gaze out. You stand at his side and close your eyes to relish in the freshness of the breeze.

When you open your eyes, a pink and blue haze drifts out of view as you adjust to the brightness of the world around you.

The Captain motions to a nearby bench. You walk and sit next to him. In this peaceful environment, the tension has eased drastically.

He starts first, and your hackles raise with what he says. “I don’t know how to say this to you. But I’m sorry. I should never have thought he was ready.”

You fidget to stop the angry tears from spilling again. “It’s hard to forgive. He listened to you- trusted you. And you willingly allowed him to go out there when you knew he wasn’t well.”

“You know every time he saw you, he saw the man that he considered his mentor, his friend, his brother, his second father? All of those titles shouldn’t belong to you, but they did and still do.”

Price takes it all in stride, but with every word that is spat from your lips, his heart dies inside him a bit more. You know this and want to further his pain so he could feel what you felt, but when he hunches over just a degree, you know that he felt more than you knew.

“And though I don’t understand why he cared about you til the end, I know Soap would have wanted me to watch out for you as well. He would have told me to do it for him. So in that spirit, that’s what I’ll do.”

John Price looks up and you force eye contact. If forgiveness could be expressed physically, you hoped it was this. His eyes are red as tear tracks begin to streak down his cheeks.

You’re certain that his face matched yours, so you shut your eyes in hopes to tamp down the spilling drops of human grief.

They don’t stop though.

So, you cry together.

-

Ghost and Roach’s funeral was going to be an event that you would hate.

Both would be laid in Brookwood, a closed casket because of the grotesque nature of their bodies.

Still, throughout the war, you had hoped that they were still alive. Maybe in another life, they would have survived and they wouldn’t have to go through the torturous death that killed them.

As it started, you held the flowers that would be thrown on their graves in a death clench. The juices of the perishing flowers filled the crevices of your nails and produced a sticky, sickly smell that clung to your hair as the clergyman spoke.

When it was your turn, you tossed the flowers like Shephard threw the lit cigar and prayed that their families would forgive.

-

Some days it seemed like nobody wanted to acknowledge the war.

There were nights when the sadness left you broken and you curled up. The PTSD sometimes became too much to handle and you nearly cracked the screen of your phone calling one of your family members.

For years to come, Mrs. Price would become a great friend. After Price had passed, the old woman had no one else to take care of besides herself. You worried about her and sometimes you wondered why you did. Was it because she had also lost her life companion? Or was it because you inherently knew that you needed each other in a time like this?

Either way, you spent more time around her, meeting for coffee at a little corner shop, inviting each other for little excursions around the city

On a particular outing, Mrs. Price had brought something that she said she found while rooting through some of her husband’s old things. She had tied a bow of silky white ribbon around the notebook that you had seen many times being toted around by your lover. Price’s wife explained then that the captain had wanted this given to you after his death.

It had accompanied Soap just about everywhere, and when he had down time, he could be seen scribbling away at one of the pages. John had no doubt poured bits of himself into it, you were sure.

Later that night in the safety of your own home, you had pulled out the notebook. The leather had small points of weathering from being handled so much, in the shape of his hand.

If you opened the book, the memories so carefully stored away would be dragged back out. You stayed sitting at the table til the early morning hours, the cries of dogs echoing late into the night. When you went to bed, you rested your head on your pillow and cried.

The morning came too quickly. You didn’t have work, but you still had chores and errands to run. The chickens and your donkey needed to be fed and cleaned up, then from there, you would need to run to town to gather some extra feed and fertilizer for your garden. The book could be left for tonight. You left it on the table and walked to the other room.

•

After a simple dinner with Mrs. Price, who was staying in Scotland for three weeks, you flipped the lights on in your kitchen.

The notebook stared back as you pulled out a brand new bottle of wine. Pouring it, you downed the first glass and prepared a second. Lord knows, you’d be needing the courage to make it through.

Slamming the bottle and glass down, you clawed at the book until it slid over. Prying up the cover like you would a crate, you pulled at the pages and they crinkled a bit under your lead hand.

The few blank pages opened to piles of notes on every blank surface.

In the book, sketches of almost everyone you had fought with sat inside. A doodle of Captain Price with a little caption, a tiny drawing of Roach with antennae, Ghost playing with a rubix cube, a half finished piece of Yuri, and even one of the layouts of a building. They lay between notes, immortalizing everyone you had lost. Cheeks damp with tears, you threw the book down.

The notebook had turned on its pages and realizing your mistake, you rushed over to pick it up. None of the pages were bent when you flipped through them, but a drawing you hadn’t seen caught your eye.

Brushing back to it, you nearly dropped the book again. Two full pages dedicated just to you opened. There were drawings of you sitting on a bench reading a book, you passed out against the wall of a helicopter, you petting a stray cat that he knew you loved, but a mirror image of yourself staring back at you was what caught your attention. Smears of shiny silver graphite smudged under John’s watchful hands had formed your face.

It became evident that what he saw was not a woman worn down and tired from war.

He saw beauty. Each feature was decorated with a detail that could only be described as being loved.

Beside it rested a side note that nearly buckled your legs. It said, Every dream I ever had.

You staggered to the hallway with the book still in hand, dragging yourself to the bathroom where you splashed frigid water on your face.

Practically reverting to the way you were just after his death, you collapsed on the floor and did your best to focus on the nails of the wooden floors. What would he think if he saw you right now? Would you still be the woman drawn in soot? Would you still be what he dreamed of had he lived?

As you sat there in silence, you came to the conclusion that you had come to a forked path. You could dwell in the valleys of the past, pinned under the good memories you had. Or, you could try to build up your strength and climb out of the rockslide.

This would not be easy. Logic asked you to move on. But, your heart wished to hurt itself again and again. You wouldn’t let it.

•

There were times when you went to sit at his grave. There were new flowers placed there every week, marigolds, lavender, poppies, and the reddest tulips you could find. Though they were cleaned away regularly, you still brought them along with snacks that he liked.

There was another woman that frequented the cemetery more regularly than you did. The only difference was your age and the fact that she was heavily pregnant. At her wife’s grave, she would cry about being alone, about feeling lost, about not knowing what to do next. There was a kindred spirit of suffering between you and you did your best to let her grieve on her own. You weren’t in a position to give her advice.

Then she disappeared. She had gone to have her baby, and you knew that you wouldn’t be seeing her for a while. Still, you hoped that your graveyard companion would come back. And she did, this time not alone.

Gone was the big belly she had once sported and now a new car seat carrier came with her. The young lady never stayed too long, now having to worry about the wiggly infant that whined when he was too cold.

You were happy that she returned, but by no means were you envious of her situation. She was haggard and looked like a woman worked to the bone, kind of like yourself not so long ago. Which is why when she left with her baby, you cleaned and honored her wife’s grave by yourself.

Years of repeating the same cycle left both of you older. The woman’s son was no longer a tiny baby, but a young boy that talked endlessly to his mothers about what he learned in school that day.

It was endearingly domestic to see him grow larger by the week, the aurora of youth in every step he took. The mother grew too. She was doing better each time you saw her, a new spark lit under her. She was still sad, but time and responsibility heal.

It was on one of those rare occasions when the sun decided to peek out from behind the clouds that your regular routine had changed. The day was bright and the world smelled fresh from the night of rain before.

You had slept well the night before and praised the heavens for your good rest. The bakery down the street had a freshly baked loaf of bread cooling in the window and you purchased it for later.

All of the good things compiling together made the day feel happier and you dared to hope. Perhaps the girl and her son would be there.

Though the ground had the consistency of a wet sponge, you still decided to spread out a blanket to sit. The picnic basket hanging on your arm had been set out and its bright red and white pattern stood out against the somber hills of green.

Stretching out, you quietly prepare the fresh bread to be eaten together. A slice for him and a slice for you goes along with a happy bouquet of crisp wildflowers next to his quiet grave.

Before you eat, you tell him a bit about how you’d been and anything that crosses your mind. When he was alive, Soap enjoyed listening to your rambling because the military had taught you not to share your thoughts.

Another car pulled up and you perked a little bit. The woman hopped out and walked to the back car door to put her child down on the ground. She quietly admonished him when he got too loud with his ramblings and picked up her purse. The duo walked to the other side of the cemetery and sat down. The soft hums of their conversation lulled you to relax. They too soak in the drowsy warmth.

Eyes drawn to the sky, you silently relish in the feeling of the sun warming your face and turn to look back at your husband. “It’s a beautiful day today. Seems nice enough for a walk. Maybe I’ll go when I’m finished here.”

“Go where?” a high pitched voice asks.

Soldier’s instinct kicks in and you whip around to see who snuck up behind you. The woman’s son stands about a yard away from you and you take a closer look at what he’s doing. He holds a small ziplock bag of mini cookies, curiously watching you.

You release your breath and smile at him. “Just going to go for a walk, kiddo.” His big brown eyes narrow like he’s unsure if you’re telling the truth. When he deems that you are, he shrugs and looks at the headstone behind you.

“Who’s that?” he asks. You turn to where his pointed ogle was. “Ah, that is my husband.”

He tilts his head and pauses to mull over your words. “He’s dead?” the boy asks.

You nod slowly. “Yes.”

His face contorts into a skewed second hand sadness. “Why did he die?”

You pause, unsure of how to give the boy the truth without telling him too much.

Successfully deciding what to say, you respond, “He was a soldier, my dear. His job was to protect those that needed him.”

“But, why though?”

He walks a few steps closer. “Well, think about it this way. You have people that you love like your mom, right? They care for you. He had people like that too,” you explain.

You can see the wheels turn in the boy’s head about what you just said. He asks, “So, he wanted to protect you?”

The air feels suddenly thin, and it makes you feel light headed.

“He did.”

The boy steps a bit closer to the grave. “Can you read what it says to me?” You smile at him through the strangulation and begin to read aloud.

“In memory of John “Soap” MacTavish. Beloved son, brother, and husband. Your sacrifice will be remembered for years to come.”

A silence spreads over the lonely gravesite. You watch the boy’s reaction carefully to see what he does. He doesn’t give much away, but rubs at his eye.

The little one then reaches into his bag of cookies to pull one out. He says, “Do you think he’d want a biscuit?”

A laugh bubbles from the bottom of your chest, true joy at the sweetness of the child’s statement.

“Yeah, I think he’d like one, kid.”

The boy smiles and puts the little treat down on the grave next to the slice of bread.

His mother huffs and puffs behind you, crying to her child to not run off on her.

She puts her hands down on her knees and pants from her run. With a hoarse voice, she tells you, “I’m so sorry, miss. My son doesn’t usually wander off from me and I was just distracted, and I’m just really sorry.”

You dismiss her anxious rambling with a smile and a wave.

“No harm done. Your son was just asking about my late husband.”

Her chest falls as she relaxes. “Oh, thank you for making sure he didn’t run off.”

“No worries, sweetheart,” you say. “I’m just glad that he’s okay.”

The young mother motions for her boy to come stand by her side, and he willingly goes to stand with her.

Curiously, she makes eye contact with you.

“You lost your husband?”

The boldness certainly passed to her son, you noted.

“I did. And I assume you also lost someone?”

She nods and a fresh bout of tears fills her eyes. “Yes, my wife. I miss her quite a lot.”

You nod as the woman puts herself out there.

“My name is Isla. This is my son Elias.”

You kindly tell the younger woman your name, and offer her a place to sit and some of your bread.

She declines the bread, but her son asks for some. You cut off a large chunk and pass it to him and his mother leaves to gather their items. After walking back to where your blanket is, she drops down beside where her child sits, happily wolfing his way through a thick slice of bread.

For the next hour and half, you spend some time talking to her. You learn that she has no other family in this country besides her son and that her boy is in the first grade.

All the while, Elias interjects little tidbits of information about his favorite foods, his friends, his activities. For the first time in a long time, you feel a bond of friendship begin to creep in.

•

Throughout your years, the pain of losing your love haunted you everyday. But the joy you felt when taking care of your family built itself into a home for everyone within your neighborhood.

The local children flocked to the field beside your home and played with animals that loved their attention. The adults would come spend afternoons and evenings with you, relishing in the fact that there was someone else there that understood their loneliness and suffering.

The few veterans that survived sometimes visited to speak about their experiences, and they asked about John often. You were pleased that his memory lived on, but were still sad.

You knew you would meet again someday. And that day did come, simply later than you expected.

Your family gathered at your bedside when the hour drew near. And although you knew they had traveled a long distance to see you, you searched for other faces besides theirs.

And you found them.

Price’s iconic silhouette was outlined in the darkened doorway, Sandman and his crew peered over the crowd, Roach hovered beside your weeping sister, and a serene Ghost stood as a silent sentry to your bedchamber. But where was Soap?

The strings of life were quickly snapping, but you cling to them with what little strength you had. Please let him be here. Don’t let me die alone.

You sense a new presence in the room over the flutter of your family members. They’re crying and stroking your arms, but you aren’t focused on them anymore.

Scanning each face, you frantically search any and all corners in the room. Where is he?

A light, warm dragging sensation trails along the length of your upper arm, and a familiar smile enchants you all over again.

As beautiful as the day you had first met him, he’s knelt as he did many long years ago.“John?” you murmur.

Excitement and fear sparks trepidation in your failing heart. “I’m scared. I’m really, really scared.” His expression curves in reassurance, though he never speaks.

At your other side, a voice chimes in. Elias.

“Auntie, who are you talking to?”

You smile at your husband who grows more vivid with every passing second. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m only talking to myself.”

The older boy’s eyes squint in a concerned manner, not seeing that you were happy to be where you were.

Closing your eyes, you straightened your spine and took a deep breath.

Inside your heart, you knew that you wouldn’t last much longer when your machines started to beep in rapid succession. A bone deep ache spreads through your body, hurting more than any injury you sustained during the war.

As the last of a dying breed, it wouldn’t be long now.

And it wasn’t. Death was just like falling asleep.

Perhaps there was dreaming. Was there singing? Who would know?

•

The tarmac is brightly lit by huge overhead lights, drowning out some of the less bright stars. As the troop carrier bumped over the potholes in the road, you looked at each of the unknown faces that sat with you. A few spoke softly to each other, but nothing loud enough to be heard from where you sat. A poet had probably written about this same situation; something about human solidarity and alienation and all of that. You didn’t really care, though.

Over the comms in the vehicles, a crackling voice announces that you have about a minute till you meet your new team. Laswell had taken care to notify you about your new position and made sure to tell you about each specialized individual who would make up this motley crue.

There were three Englishmen (one being your captain) and a Scotsman. They were rumored to be the best of the best, efficient and strong in a fight. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that they would do their job and they would do it well.

The truck slows as it turns for entry and you mentally prepare for meeting your new compatriots. As it pulls to a full stop, the other soldiers gather their bags and split to find their new commands.

You’re the last one out. The whole base is alive with camouflaged people running back and forth, helicopters landing, and loud crowing from the speakers scattered about. Between the fray and frenzy, you catch sight of the grim reaper standing near the back of another vehicle.

Laswell had described the man that you were to look for and this soldier fit the description of Lieutenant Ghost fairly well. Approaching, you hefted your bags higher on your shoulder as another man started to speak to him. He clapped the lieutenant’s shoulder heartily and turned to rejoin the group he had been with.

Trotting towards the vehicle you supposed was your next ride out, he glanced your way and your eyes met. His expression changed from one of confidence to something pensive and unsure. He didn’t pause though, and didn’t turn back to look at you.

But, in the quick moment that you had with him, there was a spark of passing recognition about his face. Something about his facial structure, or the way he held himself made you double take. Somewhere, you remembered seeing him… or someone that looked like him.

He would change your life. Just a thought.