A/N: I wouldn't normally tell a story the way I have here (present tense and all that jazz) so if you review please firstly let me know how that went. I realise there's a lot of repetition, but there's a reason. I'm also aware the grammer isn't completely intact but there's a reason for that too. Again, I'm not too happy with the title so if you can think of a better one please let me know. This just came out one night after looking at a picture of a soldier.

Curse of the Undead

Oh! How she cries for him. She cries and cries. She wails and mourns, all through the day, all through the night. The sun, it rises and it breaks her heart; another day without him and still no news. He's been gone months now. 14 months and 4 days to be precise. 430 days. And not a day's gone by when she doesn't fall apart on his account. Where is he? She pictures the worse, always the worse. That way when the dreaded comes, she's prepared… but it doesn't make her breaking heart any less painful. She had heard from him a few times at the start but it had hurt her too much waiting for replies so she had to ask him to stop. Now she just waits on the call of the dead.

The phone rings and she's terrified. Her hands shake. Her sickened stomach twists. Her heart beat races. Tears gush from her already soaked eyes.

"Who is it?"

It's her friend. She doesn't want to talk and she has no time for pleasantries so she makes her excuses and hangs up. She barely talks to anyone anymore. She goes back to her melancholy thoughts. She sees him. He's torn limb from limb in a desolate desert, blood staining the sand a deepest red. He gasps, keeps trying to fight the end. But it's impossible. When the end's coming for you, you can't fight it. You have to lie there and let it take you and hope it doesn't take it's time. So she watches him die, all in her mind's eye.

Her end came the day he left. It certainly took its time, because 10320 hours later it still hasn't finished. Its eaten away at most of her soul now but she lives on for him, the hope that one day they'll be re-united and she'll touch his face and kiss his lips and tell him all the things she's been wanting to since he left.

To her he's the undead. How can he be alive when he's been gone so long and not a word has passed between them? Yet he cannot be declared dead until that phone call or letter comes. He's her curse. She cannot rest until her mind can cease labelling him undead. She needs that phone call to come so she can rest in peace, rid of her curse.

He did it for pride, he said. What kind of pride is this? His dearly beloved in pieces at the thought of his dying body ripped into as many shreds as her fractured soul. She sees it every night, and she never sees where the pride lies.

He went for the country, he said. This country? The country that sends men to their deaths based on little more than rumours? The country with its women shedding tears alone and cold every night? This country doesn't deserve men like him standing for it and she'll stand by that opinion until they finally bring him home.

Every day she loses a little more will to live but she hangs on, if only by a nerve. She has to hang on until he comes home… or at least until the dreaded comes, that phone call of death, and then she'll leave because it will be her death sentence as well as his.

What honour is there in this? None. How can there be honour in war when innocents are slain and women are left loveless? She had thought it would be better by now but it just gets worse every day. They tell her that no news is good news but it's no comfort to her broken, tortured soul. Part of the torture is in not knowing where he is and what he's going through. She wishes she had gone with him. She wants him home, safe, more than anything in the world. But she knows, in her heart of hearts, she knows. She knows he's never coming home. And oh! How she cries for him. She cries and cries. She wails and mourns. All through the day, all through the night.

-- Even Gods Dream, 2006.