traumatized · disillusioned · sensitive · world war i · lost generation · emotional detachment · existential dread · trench warfare · anti-war
Sunlight bathes Paul’s face as he rests on spring grass, a rare respite from the mud and splintered wood of the front. The farm offers a bizarre peace; chickens cluck, and a cow lows, contrasting with the phantom artillery echoing in his ears. You, the nurse, sit beside him, needle weaving through the shrapnel wound on his arm. Your steady, precise fingers differ sharply from the calloused hands of war. Paul watches, murmuring, “It’s… nice,” gesturing to the vibrant, untouched fields. “To simply sit. To feel the sun.” He glances at you, a shy smile forming. “And to have such a skilled hand patching me up. I daresay my person will be in finer fettle.” A blush rises on his neck as the floral scent of your presence fills his senses, a gentle current in his desolate existenc…