Killing the memory

They hadn’t waited for an answer, after pounding on her door. Their boots sprayed mud over her nice, clean floor, and their commander marched in after them, a disinterested look on his face as he examined the main room. Alana supposed she should be grateful that their manners extended to not trampling through the entire house. Finishing her stacking, she fussed for just a moment longer then necessary over the placement of the jars before closing the cabinet. She was well aware that they were waiting for her.
”May I help you, gentlemen?” Wiping her hands on her apron, she acted as if this happened every day. It obviously put them off, as the commander coughed quietly, adjusting his collar which seemed just a little too tight for comfort.
”We asked after you earlier, to get some help for one of our boys.”
”Ah, that’s right. One of my kids had diarrhea and-“
”So we heard. We brought our man in with us though, so if you could…?” The sentence was left hanging, and she peered around the last few men in the line. They had a stretcher, and from the coppery scent whoever had bandaged this poor man up hadn’t done a very good job. She assumed it was gun-shot wounds she was dealing with and…
And…
”Yes. Yes of course.” Why did it have to be him?
The man was brought inside, pale as a sink, and she ushered the stretcher into a sick-room. The room itself wasn’t much, sterile in appearance save for a finger-painting she’d stuck on the wall. The wounded soldier did not mar the colorless nature of the room in the least, blending into the thin bed in the corner. Alana adjusted the pillows a little, quiet conscious of the curious eyes on her as she did so, before shooing the rest of the patrol out of the room.
”The last thing he needs is you lot here.” She told them firmly, shutting the door on their heels. Placing her thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, she squeezed gently before turning back to the room.
“What the hell have you done to yourself, Zone?”

The wounds had been re-bandaged earlier that day, but she hadn’t had time to put in the stitches until now, the children having been curious about the soldiers all day. Alana couldn’t let them be hurt, she just couldn’t, so she’d waited until dinner to see to Zone. Working under hard, fluorescent light was ideal, really, but hard on the eyes, so when the door opened behind her, she had to suppress a groan. Company was the last thing she wanted. Snatching at a half remembered name as the soldier entered, but it didn’t match the face. This one was the Nosey one, who’d followed her around most of the day as if she were under interrogation.
”You know him?” He indicated at the prone figure on the bed.

“Yes…no.” She stared at Zone a moment, before pursing her lips. This man was older then the Zone she remembered, with smile lines etched around his mouth and eyes. Grey peppered the hair above his ears. The years had been kind. “He reminds me of someone.”
Nosey rattled off the man’s real name and number, watching her for some hint of a reaction. Bodily liquids oozed as she sewed up Zone’s wounds. She ignored Nosey. Nothing felt solid, nothing was under her control. She wanted these people gone. Now.

Night descended. She sent the children up to bed, their colors slowly fading on the stairwell, and silence again settled on the house. Working without noise was so distracting, yet she left the radio off as she walked into the sickroom. The Nosey Soldier was out in the temporary soldiers camp on the back lawn, and she was glad. A certain amount of curiosity was a good thing, yet too much could kill the…
Bandages stuck as she sought to change them. The movement must have ripped the skin, as Zone’s eyes flipped open, straining to focus in the dim lights. They were green; glassy, but still green.
“Cameo?”
“No.” Her cold tone seemed to slide right off him. Typical, he never had been one to pick up on subtlety. “I’m Alana.”
He snorted in response before wincing at his own, sudden movement. “Don’t jerk me around, Cam. You’re Cameo, always will be.” Patronising as always, his tone annoyed her. He had no right…

She pressed a mug to his lips, the surprise factor causing him to swallow the liquid forced on him.

“Shut up.”
He slept. Strangely enough, seeing him lying there in a drug induced stupor, she wanted him gone. Gone from her, gone from the country if she could. She did not have smile lines. The years had not been kind to her, or to her memories of him.
Backstabber.

Terry had skinned his knee on the drive, and Alana welcomed the distraction. It had only been three days, yet the soldiers seemed to be taking it in turns to grill her for random bits of information, about herself, her life, and the man they called Fletcher. She didn’t know any Fletchers, so lying about that was easy. She did, however, know Zone. It was too complicated for her these days, so Terry’s bloodied knee was almost inviting compared to all the questions.
“These kids all yours?”
Honestly, what sort of a question was that? Two of the children were Asiatic in heritage, and for the array of hair color spread across the lot of them, she really would have had to have slept around.
“No,” he look she shot him was only mildly acidic. “Most are orphans from the town down the road, and Duncan’s family couldn’t manage another child.”
“That many orphans from one town? That place looked hardly big enough to hold families for these guys, surely their parents are…” The cadet’s doubtful look melted into somewhat embarrassed realization. “Right, the war. Sorry.”
Sure you are. As the cadet made a hasty retreat, Alana rubbed her palm over Terry’s bandaid before letting him loose into the sunlight.
Sure you are.

Closing the door would make no difference – the walls were paper thin, at best – so she didn’t bother. Innocence evaded him even in sleep, she noticed, as she drifted over to the bed; his mouth set firm, it looked as if he were merely in deep thought. It didn’t matter, made the job easier. Asleep, no shame, and in one of her beds. She pressed the gun barrel to his temple and closed her eyes.
She would not remember the soft touches.
She would not remember the soft words.
She hadn’t wanted to remember him.

Out in the kitchen, the sick sound of a cat retching could be heard.

She reported his death in the morning. Wound infection, and the unit medic confirmed it. As the commander counted out food vouchers, easily enough for the year to come for the whole household, Alana took a few of the jam jars from the cupboard. The men she gave them to insisted it wasn’t necessary, bagged them anyway, before moving outside with the rest of the unit. As the patrol marched down the drive, she reached a hand behind her head and, after fiddling a few moments, let her bun drop. Zone had always liked it when she wore her hair down. The wind picking at the tangled locks, she leant her head against the doorframe, waiting until the parade was at the end of her vision before turning her back on it. The radio played quietly in the background, music from her parents era filling the kitchen, and mingling with the whoops and giggles she heard from the backyard.

Slipping the fully-loaded pistol back into its draw, she went to turn the kettle off.