Steve, a middle aged man, wearing a clean military uniform, tucked and upright, shaved and washed, walks through the fog on a dirt road that is lit by gaslight from a row of street lamps. He begins to talk to himself as he approaches a grave sight on the side of the road.
"The area around me does not look as it once did. The trees are fewer then wince I left them. I almost don't recognize the place. If it weren't for this area of the dead, I would not know that I was home. This town has been touched by the war more from over the past year than it had in the 20 years that I lived here. The folk that still reside here have even stopped taking the time to bury their dead."
He walks around the grave site, looking at all the unburied bodies. "Some of these faces I recognize. These faces of the dead look fresh. No doubt the cold has preserved them."
Stopping in front of a corpse, he bends down to take a closer look at what is before him. "Oh. My friend. So it would seem that you have perished with this assortment of villagers. I fear that will soon be my fate as well. Curse me for surviving to see this day, for the friend that I came back to share my stories with has dropped, leaving their vessel behind. What cruel fate has swept you away from this mortal life? Was it the war that saw to your bloody end? Were you stricken down by an unjust illness? Perhaps a burglar had crept into your window at a late and unsuspecting night. Amidst the chaos that drove the outside noises in, you could not hear them skulking around on the wooden floor of your home. They made their way to your bed as you slept and did you in."
While Steve was contemplating the nature of what lead this person to the grave, another man walked up behind him. Slappy, about the same age though maybe a little younger, clad in old slacks and a scratchy vest over a well pressed shirt, leans over Steve. "You there. What are you doing?"
Steve hardly minds them, only slightly tilting their head to reply over their shoulder. "I am paying my respects to my friend that has fallen while I was away."
"No you're not. You're telling some ridiculous story over the top of that corpse." Slappy moves around to the side to get a better look at the body before them.
Steve hangs his head in sorrow. "This may be just a corpse in your eyes but to me, he was a better friend than any could ever have had."
Looking closer at the body, Slappy replies, "He? Did you say, 'He'?"
"Yes" Steve stands up tall, showing his imposing figure to the other man.
Unimpressed, Slappy continues. "What's this 'he' talk? To whom are you referring?"
"The soulless remains that you see before you of my friend Slappy." Steve gestures toward the body with an open palm.
"That's not Slappy. I'm your friend Slappy." Confused, Slappy pleads with Steve to look at him.
"What are you talking about?" Steve avoids making eye contact.
Slappy grabs Steve by the lapel. "Steve, it's me. Slappy. I'm here, and I'm alive of all things. I'm not the corpse of that dead woman."
Steve looks at Slappy, seemingly coming to his senses. "Oh. How did you know that this was a woman."
Slappy looks back and forth from Steve to the dead woman. "She's hardly decayed in the cold, and she has breasts. How could you mistake her for me?"
Steve replies, "I thought that you had gone through some life changes while I was away."
"What manner of life changes would make me a woman over the course of one small year? Your story is becoming quite clear to me now." Slappy pulls away from Steve. "You're delirious from your travel. You stopped at the field of graves made by war and picked a random body to sulk over. You then picked the first name that crossed your mind and used it to label your despair. You had not even known that it was me as I approached you."
"That seems to be a wild accusation. I'll leave it for what it is." Steve grabs Slappy, wrapping his large hands around Slappy's upper arms, shaking him a little. "You are here, my friend. You are alive and well, and I am happy to see you. I can assure you that I am not ill, nor am I confused." Steve releases his grip to motion around them at the landscape. "I was merely expressing a sentiment to all that have fallen in this place, and as you made your way up, I thought of you."
Scared, Slappy's breath becomes heavy. "I don't believe you. I know you better than that. Yet, I would imagine that you no longer know me quite as well."
"War can change a man. I suppose we have both grown to be new people." Steve pulls on his uniform to straiten it up.
Shaking his head, Slappy asks, "What have you done, to stay in the war for such a long time?"
Steve hastily replies, "I suppose it has been a long time. I left before you, as the troops were first being enlisted. I made my way up the ranks and even stayed to the front line. I've never before seen the things that have caused me to forget even more. I'm sorry to reveal to you, that I know not of my time serving, and less of my time living. But, what has brought you home?"
"I only went in last year. I remember all of my missions. I was a pilot in a troop of 25 airmen. All of our missions were successful. When I reached my limit, they sent me home." As Slappy recalls his time, Steve reaches down to his belt to retrieve something. "That was about three months ago. Ah!" Slappy looks down to see that Steve has stabbed him with a knife. "Why did you stab me?"
With a sinister grin, Steve says, "Don't you know, that it was I who sent you to war? I had hoped that you would die while you were out, so that when I got home, I could take possession of all of your property. But, you came back. This was unexpected. Now I have fixed the problem. For you will die here and be forgotten among a mass of confusing, surly listed as a casualty of battle."
As Steve monologues, Slappy slowly lumbers to the ground by the dead woman, holding on to one of the stones nearby. "You're a fool, Steve. You didn't send for me. I went on my own, knowing my skill and how much I could help." Slappy shivers as his blood runs out of his wound, being unable to keep it closed, lying beside the corpse. "It had paid off for sure."
Steve drops the knife and looks at his own hands. "Oh? Perhaps I am a fool after all. I am ill."
Slappy manages to sputter out his last words through the blood, "Now I'm dying. You have killed me, Steve. Why have you killed me? Why Steve? I'm dead."
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