HOME | DD

Description
Diane Katsynski had never been happy after her husband was killed in the war, and the world was cold. The loneliness was unbearable, her anger at the world, life, and the God she'd always believed in was insatiable, and the confusion had been enough to earn her prescriptions to two antidepressants and monthly counseling. Her friends stayed away from her, her family stopped calling, and she had been fired from three jobs. She couldn't control herself or her emotions. The worst part of all of it, though, was not knowing how he died. No one had seen him die--they had found him in the aftermath of the skirmish, shot in the heart. She had been notified a week later, after his body came in, by an inexpressive officer who carefully articulated to her the last thing she'd ever wanted to hear.

There had been no denial--there had been immediate acceptance and shock that caused her to faint right there at the doorstep. She had never once said, "He isn't dead, he can't be." God, she wished could have, but her mind was too rigid. It wouldn't let her have anything but the truth. At the funeral, she couldn't stop sobbing or pull her hands from her face. She had hugged no one, shaken no one's hand, and answered everyone's I'm sorry's with a vicious, hateful "Fuck you!" They weren't sorry. It wasn't their husband. The worst one had been his commander, who had the nerve to try to tell her, "When you enlist, you always have to accept that it might happen--" She had slapped him, pushed him down, and certainly would have killed him if several other attendees hadn't pulled her away.

She couldn't forget every night she laid down, and there was an empty space on the bed next to her. He'd been away on duty before, but that space had always promised her that he would return. This time, that promise was gone. The one thing she had to remember him--to really remember him--was his dogtag. They had wanted to bury him with it, but she'd insisted on keeping it. She was dead certain his warmth was always on it when she held it, fingered it at night as she lay in bed unable to sleep. Sergeant Paul Katsynski, it read. Paul, to her. Paul, her sweetheart, Paul, her honey, Paul, her baby, Paul, her hero. Never once had she been angry at him for dying--it could never have been his fault. It was the world's fault for taking him from her.

But one night, that all changed.

Several months had passed since his funeral, and she lay awake staring out her window onto the listless sea, across which a war was being fought that stole men from their wives. The thought drove her mad, and she clutched her husband's dogtag to her bosom. It was a little worn and tarnished from her fingers' constant contact, but it was warm. Such a precious sensation, when the world was completely cold. Over on her nightstand was an empty bottle of Zoloft, and a half empty bottle of tricyclic. she became angry thinking of how those drugs controlled her. But she knew she might become suicidal if she stopped taking them. She thought that killing herself would be something she wanted, but was repelled for some reason. Maybe because it was cowardly, and she had never been a coward. Paul would be so ashamed of her if she did something so weak, so she didn't. She suffered yet another day in this empty world, hoping the world would decide to take her away too. She wanted to be with Paul, hold him, cry for him. Tell him she loved him, but most of all, to say goodbye.

As that thought graced her consciousness, she was alerted to a new sound. Footsteps, downstairs, in her house. Her heart raced. She listened and minute, and confirmed it: there was someone in her house.

Slowly, she crawled out of bed, her pink, satin nightgown billowing on a slight breeze whose origin was untraceable. She went to her closet, opened it, and removed a loaded, pump-action shotgun. It was a twelve gauge. She hoisted it against her shoulder, and silently exited her upstairs room towards the staircase. A slight pride entered her; if there's one thing she retained, it was how well Paul taught her to shoot. She hadn't wanted to learn, but once she had, she was glad she did. Also, secretly, she was hoping she would get to use it tonight. Maybe that would take care of some of her pent-up rage.

She looked over her balcony, saw no one, and crept down the stairs. The footsteps were in her kitchen. When she got closer, she could tell they were wearing heavy shoes, whoever they were. She rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, into her kitchen, and pumped the shotgun. "Who's--!" she started, but froze, choking on her words.

In her kitchen, backs turned to her, were seven soldiers. Military men in tan and dark green fatigues, caps, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. They did not respond to the noise she had made, and she was glad they hadn't. Oh God, what was going on?

One of them spoke and rapidly fired off something in a foreign language--Spanish. Another responded. They talked on like this among each other for a few minutes, and then unslung their rifles. She lifted her shotgun, biting back a gasp, and stepped back. Her fear numbed her, and her hand trembled violently as it struggled to hold the barrel of her weapon steady. They then turned, and head for the back of her kitchen. She got a look at their faces--they looked like they were from South America. She was almost absolutely sure one of them would catch sight of her out of his peripheral vision, but she went unnoticed. They walked on, in sync with one another, their combat boots pounding the floor.

She wanted to turn and run, go get a phone and call for help...but she couldn't. A terrible curiosity drove her on. Once they had advanced far enough away, she followed after them, trigger finger jumping. As she entered the kitchen, she saw they were headed for the glass door leading out to her back yard area, a flat, grassy plane that overlooked the ocean. They marched on as if they didn't see it. They didn't look like they were going to stop and open it...

...and then, they marched, and passed right through it, outside. Diane blinked, and stood stock still. Their flesh melted right through the solid glass, as if it wasn't there. She choked on a cry of surprise. Was she hallucinating? Oh no, please...she couldn't be going crazy. No, she couldn't be crazy. She was on her meds. There was no reason for this to be happening, but yet it was. They continued marching out back, and she could hear them as if there were no barrier between them. "Jesus, Jesus Christ..." she said, her legs now shaking. She followed their path and went to the door. Disbelievingly, she touched it with her shaking fingertips. Yes, it was solid. She pressed herself against it--yes, it was stopping her. She looked back out into the five 'o clock air, and there the soldiers still stood.

She swallowed hard, reached for the handle, and slid the door open. It creaked loudly, and she flinched. But, as before, they did not react. She stepped her feet out onto the freezing grass, and an oceanic wind whipped her nightgown uncomfortably high up around her thighs. She closed the door behind her, shifting the shotgun to one hand. She approached the men, who were now starting to sit. One of them took out a cigarette and a lighter, and began to smoke. They began talking in Spanish loudly, resting their guns comfortably in their grip.

She decided to test them. "H...hey!!" she called. "What the hell are you doing here?!" They ignored her. "I've got a gun, I'm calling the cops! I'll have you arrested!" She brandished her weapon at them. One of them looked straight at her, but only as if she was air. It was unnerving. She tried a much more threatening ultimatum: "I'll shoot on the count of three if you don't move!" She raised her gun and lined the sights up squarely between the nearest one's shoulder blades. "One!"

"Two!"

"Thr--"

An ear-shattering, resounding shot suddenly thundered from behind her, and she watched as one of the men's headed suddenly twisted, spraying a jet of blood on the grass on his comrade. The body crumpled into a fetal position as it feel to the ground. Diane herself screamed and hit the deck. She hadn't fired that shot! She hadn't done--

The men, terrified, scrambled to their feet and brought their rifles to bear in the direction of the shot. They began shouting, and started firing. A thunderstorm of staccato pops began as yellow tracers arced their way across Diane's backward, where she had just been standing, searching for the offender. She was glad she'd hit the ground, and covered her head. "Help me!!!" she screamed.

"Go, go, go!" a voice shouted behind her. She didn't look. "Flank those sons of bitches, flank them!" Another deafening shot roared behind her, this time a little closer, and she watched as the Hispanic men dove for the dirt. They quickly took up crawling positions, and began returning fire again. "Stanson, Laws, use your hand grenades!" The voice ordered.

A second later, a bumpy, black, metallic object landed in front of Diane's face. It was ticking. Her eyes shot open wide in horror. "Oh fuck, no!!!" she screamed, but not before the device exploded. Suddenly she was engulfed in a hellstorm of flame, sound, and shrapnel. The explosion caused her ears to suddenly lose their ability to function, and any other noise was replaced by a high-pitched ringing.

But she was unharmed. The flames vanished, and as she was surrounded by smoke, but she was unharmed. The firing in front of her fell silent for a moment. Her hands were now shaking beyond her control, and her breath came in rapid hics. Worst of all, she felt a spreading, liquid warmth in her underwear that trickled down her thigh. She flushed.

Before she had to completely panic, new gunfire opened up behind her, and she recognized it as the M16A2. They were American, then. "Katsynski!" one of the voices called out. The air on the back of her neck bristled. Her?! "Katsynski, get the hell back here!!!" She looked up--the Hispanics had moved further back in the smoke created by the grenade, and weren't firing...but...but would it even matter? The grenade--somehow, it hadn't hurt her. She bit her lip, grabbed her shotgun, which she had dropped, and then stumbled to her feet as fast as she could. Then she turned and started at a dead run towards the shadows opposite of the enemy. As she got closer, she saw the standard issue military uniform of U.S. soldiers, and her heart skipped a beat. But then she got closer, and noticed...they weren't even looking at her. They looking beyond her, and to the right. Her running slowed...what? Was someone else named Katsynski, by some twist of fate? She looked in the direction they were looking, still continuing to move to them.

But what she saw made her freeze. No, it hadn't been her they were talking about...

There stood her husband. Her husband, braced against the lone tree in her backyard. His rifle was raised to his shoulder, and he was concentrated on the enemy before him. She stopped breathing, and thoughts again returned to her that she was going crazy. She dropped her shotgun. "Honey...?" she whispered. Her hand went to her stomach. "Sweetheart?!" she said louder. Tears came to her eyes.

He began firing, and his rifle swept a stream of bullets over the men who had started to raise their guns again. The spray of fire made them abandon the effort. He fired untl he was out, and began to reload. "Katsynski!!!" the soldiers behind her yelled.

"I've got 'em!" he replied. Oh God yes, it was him. That was his voice. "Move on up, move on up! I've got 'em pinned!"

"Honey, Paul!!!" she yelled desperately, and ran towards him. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She heard footsteps pounding behind her, and she was passed on her left by the men as they took a position further up from her...her husband. She couldn't believe it--everything else that was going on faded into the background of her awareness. "Sweetheart!!!"

The enemy soldiers began firing. The Americans returned the fire, and two more of the Hispanics fell, issuing a short cry as they did so. The four remaining went back to the cover of the ground, and the Americans took the opportunity to reload. Paul finished reloading, and hoisted his weapon again. She had almost reached him--

Then a shot rang out from the enemy side, and all of a sudden, Paul flinched. She did too. Why--? And then it hit her. Her mouth dropped open.

She watched in agony as he suddenly lowered his gun, and his hand went to his heart. His brow furrowed, and he squinted in pain. "Uh--!" he said, and stumbled forward, his legs dragging. Diane's stomach dropped into her knees as he grunted: "Uh...I'm hi-I'm hit!" But his calls were not heard by his teammates, who had begun firing again. She watched, new tears welling up in her eyes as he tried to move towards them. She covered her hand with her mouth. He sunk to his knees, sitting back. She noticed for the first time that his face was already covered with bruises, bleeding wounds...his dark eyes searched listlessly for a moment, and he fell back.

Tears suddenly began running down her face hot and without limits. "Oh no...oh please, God, no...no, no, no...no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!" her voice rose to a screech. A flash of hot anger consumed her completely, and her body acted of its own accord. She flew to her shotgun, swung it up, shouldered it, and began running towards the enemy. She passed right through the soldiers on her side. She didn't even aim, she just pulled the trigger.

The shotgun thundered into their group, tearing up a patch of grass and dirt and sending it spinning in all directions. without any reaction whatsoever. She pumped, fired again, this time closer. No reaction. She pumped, fired, pumped, fired, pumped, fired, pumped, fired, yelling the worst obscenities she knew at the top of her voice, tears streaming down her face, her heart pounding and her knees knocking. The bullets did no damage, and as she got closer, they began to fade. This only made her angrier, and she pulled the trigger again, not eve stopping to think why they were disappearing. The hammer knocked against an empty chamber, but she pulled the trigger again nonetheless. Click.

By the time she reached their position, they were gone completely, and she sunk to her knees, now crying too hard to stand up. She threw the shotgun as far as she could, and cried out at the top of her lungs, hands balled into fists. She looked back at the Americans, and they were gone too. It was all gone--

No. No, it wasn't. She saw him. She saw Paul still lying there on the ground, at a distance, staring up into the sky. She had never gotten up and run faster in her whole life. In an instant, she was at his side, sobs still racking her. She put her hands on him...and her hand actually fell on him. She felt warmth. She felt movement--and she felt the spreading wetness of blood. She looked at his face, and his eyes were closed, deep purple from both internal wounds and little sleep. His rugged chin was stained with blood, as was his nose and jawline. It was the most horrible thing she'd ever seen.

But it became the most beautiful as he opened his eyes weakly. They met hers, and stared at her. They recognized her, and lit up. This was no illusion. Neither were his words... "Babe--nice to see you got my dogtag."

She quickly snatched it from around her necked and placed it around his own. Then she wrapped a hand around his neck gently and lifted his head. She took his other hand, drew it across his chest under his wound, and squeezed. "I'm here, Paul." she cried. "I'm here, sweetheart. You're okay. You're okay, I'm here. You're gonna be alright." Her lips were trembling. "I've missed you so much. I've missed you so much. You're not going to die, not this time, sweetheart. I love you too much."

"Die?" he said, his voice gravelly with blood. He laughed. "I haven't died yet, honey. But I do hurt a lot...I think that might be the way it goes."

"No, it won't." she said insistently. "I'm here. I'm here, I'll take care of you, I'll call an ambulance--"

"No ambulance can save me now, Diane. I've been shot in the heart over in Nicaragua. I'm going to die on this battlefield in a couple minutes."

"No, stop saying that! Stop it, shut up!!!" she shouted over him. "My life was ruined when you died, I couldn't go on living, and now that you're here, I won't let you go again! I can't!"

"Honey...precious..." he said, his breaths getting heavier. He took the hand that had been in her grip, and enveloped it with his own. He tightened it with confident reassurance. It was warm. "I...I'm not back here so you could save me. You can't do that. I've left this world...I'm not dead, but I'm not here anymore."

"What do you mean?!" she asked.

"They told me that I could on...go on to Heaven, the angels did." he began. "The Lord said my work here was done. But from there, I could see you suffering. I saw your heart Diane, and how dark it was. I tore me to pieces, even in paradise, to see you left here on this Earth in torment, agony, loneliness. I couldn't stand it, and I hated myself for leaving you behind. I never thought I would die in the war...I never thought of the consequences...and I hurt you so much because of it, more than these--" he coughed, spitting blood on his already mottled uniform, "wounds ever could. I got down on my knees and begged in tears that I be able to tell you goodbye. That I be able to show you what it was like, and that I didn't suffer much. To tell you I loved you one last time. To tell you...I'll always be with you. It's not a lie, Diane. When people go from here...they really do stay on Earth with the people they loved most, in some form. It's not a lie, or a figure of speech. I begged God to let me tell you this, because I knew as well as He did that you would suffer unfairly if I didn't. And...and he agreed. One on condition...Diane, I've been killed in this battle hundreds of times since the day I died. Every night, I relive the entire experience; it's the only way for me to keep my soul grounded here completely, because part of life is suffering. I happily died over and over until I got this chance...because no pain is more powerful than my love for you. And I know...I know you feel the same, sweetheart.

"So sweetheart, I came to say this: I love you so much, and I can't wait until the day we're together again, for good. In the mean time...I'll be watching out for you. The world doesn't have to be cold."

She whimpered. "Please don't leave me, Paul...please, stay..." she brought his forehead to her lips, and kissed him. "Please..."

"I've done what no soul has been willing to do in centuries..." Paul replied. "And if I could give up paradise and stay here with you...sweetheart, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I'll always still be here with you." The morning sun, which had been lighting the sky, suddenly broke the horizon and spilled bright, orangey light on both of them. "Always, I swear." He squeezed her hand again, and smiled. "It's time for me to go.'

Diane wanted to scream at him, shake him, swear at him and make him stay just a second longer...but...but she knew she couldn't. She steeled herself, and said, "H-how will I know...what's you?"

He leaned up, grunting in pain, and kissed her on the lips, and they were so warm. "You'll know...you'll know." His kind, dark eyes stared at her longingly for anther moment. Diane suddenly felt his heart in chest suddenly grow weaker, slower. This was it. She started crying again, but this time silently. "See you later."

She squeezed her eyes shut to bite back a sob, and then opened them. When she did, her arms were wrapped around her. Paul was gone.

Before she could break down completely again, she felt the morning light tickle her eyelids, and brush against her cheek. When it did, she suddenly smiled. Her tears dried up, and...and...

...and she laughed, for the first time in a long time.

The sunlight was warm.

Picture and story inspired by the song "Unknown Soldier" by Breaking Benjamin on the album "Phobia"

Description
Diane Katsynski had never been happy after her husband was killed in the war, and the world was cold. The loneliness was unbearable, her anger at the world, life, and the God she'd always believed in was insatiable, and the confusion had been enough to earn her prescriptions to two antidepressants and monthly counseling. Her friends stayed away from her, her family stopped calling, and she had been fired from three jobs. She couldn't control herself or her emotions. The worst part of all of it, though, was not knowing how he died. No one had seen him die--they had found him in the aftermath of the skirmish, shot in the heart. She had been notified a week later, after his body came in, by an inexpressive officer who carefully articulated to her the last thing she'd ever wanted to hear.

There had been no denial--there had been immediate acceptance and shock that caused her to faint right there at the doorstep. She had never once said, "He isn't dead, he can't be." God, she wished could have, but her mind was too rigid. It wouldn't let her have anything but the truth. At the funeral, she couldn't stop sobbing or pull her hands from her face. She had hugged no one, shaken no one's hand, and answered everyone's I'm sorry's with a vicious, hateful "Fuck you!" They weren't sorry. It wasn't their husband. The worst one had been his commander, who had the nerve to try to tell her, "When you enlist, you always have to accept that it might happen--" She had slapped him, pushed him down, and certainly would have killed him if several other attendees hadn't pulled her away.

She couldn't forget every night she laid down, and there was an empty space on the bed next to her. He'd been away on duty before, but that space had always promised her that he would return. This time, that promise was gone. The one thing she had to remember him--to really remember him--was his dogtag. They had wanted to bury him with it, but she'd insisted on keeping it. She was dead certain his warmth was always on it when she held it, fingered it at night as she lay in bed unable to sleep. Sergeant Paul Katsynski, it read. Paul, to her. Paul, her sweetheart, Paul, her honey, Paul, her baby, Paul, her hero. Never once had she been angry at him for dying--it could never have been his fault. It was the world's fault for taking him from her.

But one night, that all changed.

Several months had passed since his funeral, and she lay awake staring out her window onto the listless sea, across which a war was being fought that stole men from their wives. The thought drove her mad, and she clutched her husband's dogtag to her bosom. It was a little worn and tarnished from her fingers' constant contact, but it was warm. Such a precious sensation, when the world was completely cold. Over on her nightstand was an empty bottle of Zoloft, and a half empty bottle of tricyclic. she became angry thinking of how those drugs controlled her. But she knew she might become suicidal if she stopped taking them. She thought that killing herself would be something she wanted, but was repelled for some reason. Maybe because it was cowardly, and she had never been a coward. Paul would be so ashamed of her if she did something so weak, so she didn't. She suffered yet another day in this empty world, hoping the world would decide to take her away too. She wanted to be with Paul, hold him, cry for him. Tell him she loved him, but most of all, to say goodbye.

As that thought graced her consciousness, she was alerted to a new sound. Footsteps, downstairs, in her house. Her heart raced. She listened and minute, and confirmed it: there was someone in her house.

Slowly, she crawled out of bed, her pink, satin nightgown billowing on a slight breeze whose origin was untraceable. She went to her closet, opened it, and removed a loaded, pump-action shotgun. It was a twelve gauge. She hoisted it against her shoulder, and silently exited her upstairs room towards the staircase. A slight pride entered her; if there's one thing she retained, it was how well Paul taught her to shoot. She hadn't wanted to learn, but once she had, she was glad she did. Also, secretly, she was hoping she would get to use it tonight. Maybe that would take care of some of her pent-up rage.

She looked over her balcony, saw no one, and crept down the stairs. The footsteps were in her kitchen. When she got closer, she could tell they were wearing heavy shoes, whoever they were. She rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, into her kitchen, and pumped the shotgun. "Who's--!" she started, but froze, choking on her words.

In her kitchen, backs turned to her, were seven soldiers. Military men in tan and dark green fatigues, caps, AK-47s slung over their shoulders. They did not respond to the noise she had made, and she was glad they hadn't. Oh God, what was going on?

One of them spoke and rapidly fired off something in a foreign language--Spanish. Another responded. They talked on like this among each other for a few minutes, and then unslung their rifles. She lifted her shotgun, biting back a gasp, and stepped back. Her fear numbed her, and her hand trembled violently as it struggled to hold the barrel of her weapon steady. They then turned, and head for the back of her kitchen. She got a look at their faces--they looked like they were from South America. She was almost absolutely sure one of them would catch sight of her out of his peripheral vision, but she went unnoticed. They walked on, in sync with one another, their combat boots pounding the floor.

She wanted to turn and run, go get a phone and call for help...but she couldn't. A terrible curiosity drove her on. Once they had advanced far enough away, she followed after them, trigger finger jumping. As she entered the kitchen, she saw they were headed for the glass door leading out to her back yard area, a flat, grassy plane that overlooked the ocean. They marched on as if they didn't see it. They didn't look like they were going to stop and open it...

...and then, they marched, and passed right through it, outside. Diane blinked, and stood stock still. Their flesh melted right through the solid glass, as if it wasn't there. She choked on a cry of surprise. Was she hallucinating? Oh no, please...she couldn't be going crazy. No, she couldn't be crazy. She was on her meds. There was no reason for this to be happening, but yet it was. They continued marching out back, and she could hear them as if there were no barrier between them. "Jesus, Jesus Christ..." she said, her legs now shaking. She followed their path and went to the door. Disbelievingly, she touched it with her shaking fingertips. Yes, it was solid. She pressed herself against it--yes, it was stopping her. She looked back out into the five 'o clock air, and there the soldiers still stood.

She swallowed hard, reached for the handle, and slid the door open. It creaked loudly, and she flinched. But, as before, they did not react. She stepped her feet out onto the freezing grass, and an oceanic wind whipped her nightgown uncomfortably high up around her thighs. She closed the door behind her, shifting the shotgun to one hand. She approached the men, who were now starting to sit. One of them took out a cigarette and a lighter, and began to smoke. They began talking in Spanish loudly, resting their guns comfortably in their grip.

She decided to test them. "H...hey!!" she called. "What the hell are you doing here?!" They ignored her. "I've got a gun, I'm calling the cops! I'll have you arrested!" She brandished her weapon at them. One of them looked straight at her, but only as if she was air. It was unnerving. She tried a much more threatening ultimatum: "I'll shoot on the count of three if you don't move!" She raised her gun and lined the sights up squarely between the nearest one's shoulder blades. "One!"

"Two!"

"Thr--"

An ear-shattering, resounding shot suddenly thundered from behind her, and she watched as one of the men's headed suddenly twisted, spraying a jet of blood on the grass on his comrade. The body crumpled into a fetal position as it feel to the ground. Diane herself screamed and hit the deck. She hadn't fired that shot! She hadn't done--

The men, terrified, scrambled to their feet and brought their rifles to bear in the direction of the shot. They began shouting, and started firing. A thunderstorm of staccato pops began as yellow tracers arced their way across Diane's backward, where she had just been standing, searching for the offender. She was glad she'd hit the ground, and covered her head. "Help me!!!" she screamed.

"Go, go, go!" a voice shouted behind her. She didn't look. "Flank those sons of bitches, flank them!" Another deafening shot roared behind her, this time a little closer, and she watched as the Hispanic men dove for the dirt. They quickly took up crawling positions, and began returning fire again. "Stanson, Laws, use your hand grenades!" The voice ordered.

A second later, a bumpy, black, metallic object landed in front of Diane's face. It was ticking. Her eyes shot open wide in horror. "Oh fuck, no!!!" she screamed, but not before the device exploded. Suddenly she was engulfed in a hellstorm of flame, sound, and shrapnel. The explosion caused her ears to suddenly lose their ability to function, and any other noise was replaced by a high-pitched ringing.

But she was unharmed. The flames vanished, and as she was surrounded by smoke, but she was unharmed. The firing in front of her fell silent for a moment. Her hands were now shaking beyond her control, and her breath came in rapid hics. Worst of all, she felt a spreading, liquid warmth in her underwear that trickled down her thigh. She flushed.

Before she had to completely panic, new gunfire opened up behind her, and she recognized it as the M16A2. They were American, then. "Katsynski!" one of the voices called out. The air on the back of her neck bristled. Her?! "Katsynski, get the hell back here!!!" She looked up--the Hispanics had moved further back in the smoke created by the grenade, and weren't firing...but...but would it even matter? The grenade--somehow, it hadn't hurt her. She bit her lip, grabbed her shotgun, which she had dropped, and then stumbled to her feet as fast as she could. Then she turned and started at a dead run towards the shadows opposite of the enemy. As she got closer, she saw the standard issue military uniform of U.S. soldiers, and her heart skipped a beat. But then she got closer, and noticed...they weren't even looking at her. They looking beyond her, and to the right. Her running slowed...what? Was someone else named Katsynski, by some twist of fate? She looked in the direction they were looking, still continuing to move to them.

But what she saw made her freeze. No, it hadn't been her they were talking about...

There stood her husband. Her husband, braced against the lone tree in her backyard. His rifle was raised to his shoulder, and he was concentrated on the enemy before him. She stopped breathing, and thoughts again returned to her that she was going crazy. She dropped her shotgun. "Honey...?" she whispered. Her hand went to her stomach. "Sweetheart?!" she said louder. Tears came to her eyes.

He began firing, and his rifle swept a stream of bullets over the men who had started to raise their guns again. The spray of fire made them abandon the effort. He fired untl he was out, and began to reload. "Katsynski!!!" the soldiers behind her yelled.

"I've got 'em!" he replied. Oh God yes, it was him. That was his voice. "Move on up, move on up! I've got 'em pinned!"

"Honey, Paul!!!" she yelled desperately, and ran towards him. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She heard footsteps pounding behind her, and she was passed on her left by the men as they took a position further up from her...her husband. She couldn't believe it--everything else that was going on faded into the background of her awareness. "Sweetheart!!!"

The enemy soldiers began firing. The Americans returned the fire, and two more of the Hispanics fell, issuing a short cry as they did so. The four remaining went back to the cover of the ground, and the Americans took the opportunity to reload. Paul finished reloading, and hoisted his weapon again. She had almost reached him--

Then a shot rang out from the enemy side, and all of a sudden, Paul flinched. She did too. Why--? And then it hit her. Her mouth dropped open.

She watched in agony as he suddenly lowered his gun, and his hand went to his heart. His brow furrowed, and he squinted in pain. "Uh--!" he said, and stumbled forward, his legs dragging. Diane's stomach dropped into her knees as he grunted: "Uh...I'm hi-I'm hit!" But his calls were not heard by his teammates, who had begun firing again. She watched, new tears welling up in her eyes as he tried to move towards them. She covered her hand with her mouth. He sunk to his knees, sitting back. She noticed for the first time that his face was already covered with bruises, bleeding wounds...his dark eyes searched listlessly for a moment, and he fell back.

Tears suddenly began running down her face hot and without limits. "Oh no...oh please, God, no...no, no, no...no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!!!!" her voice rose to a screech. A flash of hot anger consumed her completely, and her body acted of its own accord. She flew to her shotgun, swung it up, shouldered it, and began running towards the enemy. She passed right through the soldiers on her side. She didn't even aim, she just pulled the trigger.

The shotgun thundered into their group, tearing up a patch of grass and dirt and sending it spinning in all directions. without any reaction whatsoever. She pumped, fired again, this time closer. No reaction. She pumped, fired, pumped, fired, pumped, fired, pumped, fired, yelling the worst obscenities she knew at the top of her voice, tears streaming down her face, her heart pounding and her knees knocking. The bullets did no damage, and as she got closer, they began to fade. This only made her angrier, and she pulled the trigger again, not eve stopping to think why they were disappearing. The hammer knocked against an empty chamber, but she pulled the trigger again nonetheless. Click.

By the time she reached their position, they were gone completely, and she sunk to her knees, now crying too hard to stand up. She threw the shotgun as far as she could, and cried out at the top of her lungs, hands balled into fists. She looked back at the Americans, and they were gone too. It was all gone--

No. No, it wasn't. She saw him. She saw Paul still lying there on the ground, at a distance, staring up into the sky. She had never gotten up and run faster in her whole life. In an instant, she was at his side, sobs still racking her. She put her hands on him...and her hand actually fell on him. She felt warmth. She felt movement--and she felt the spreading wetness of blood. She looked at his face, and his eyes were closed, deep purple from both internal wounds and little sleep. His rugged chin was stained with blood, as was his nose and jawline. It was the most horrible thing she'd ever seen.

But it became the most beautiful as he opened his eyes weakly. They met hers, and stared at her. They recognized her, and lit up. This was no illusion. Neither were his words... "Babe--nice to see you got my dogtag."

She quickly snatched it from around her necked and placed it around his own. Then she wrapped a hand around his neck gently and lifted his head. She took his other hand, drew it across his chest under his wound, and squeezed. "I'm here, Paul." she cried. "I'm here, sweetheart. You're okay. You're okay, I'm here. You're gonna be alright." Her lips were trembling. "I've missed you so much. I've missed you so much. You're not going to die, not this time, sweetheart. I love you too much."

"Die?" he said, his voice gravelly with blood. He laughed. "I haven't died yet, honey. But I do hurt a lot...I think that might be the way it goes."

"No, it won't." she said insistently. "I'm here. I'm here, I'll take care of you, I'll call an ambulance--"

"No ambulance can save me now, Diane. I've been shot in the heart over in Nicaragua. I'm going to die on this battlefield in a couple minutes."

"No, stop saying that! Stop it, shut up!!!" she shouted over him. "My life was ruined when you died, I couldn't go on living, and now that you're here, I won't let you go again! I can't!"

"Honey...precious..." he said, his breaths getting heavier. He took the hand that had been in her grip, and enveloped it with his own. He tightened it with confident reassurance. It was warm. "I...I'm not back here so you could save me. You can't do that. I've left this world...I'm not dead, but I'm not here anymore."

"What do you mean?!" she asked.

"They told me that I could on...go on to Heaven, the angels did." he began. "The Lord said my work here was done. But from there, I could see you suffering. I saw your heart Diane, and how dark it was. I tore me to pieces, even in paradise, to see you left here on this Earth in torment, agony, loneliness. I couldn't stand it, and I hated myself for leaving you behind. I never thought I would die in the war...I never thought of the consequences...and I hurt you so much because of it, more than these--" he coughed, spitting blood on his already mottled uniform, "wounds ever could. I got down on my knees and begged in tears that I be able to tell you goodbye. That I be able to show you what it was like, and that I didn't suffer much. To tell you I loved you one last time. To tell you...I'll always be with you. It's not a lie, Diane. When people go from here...they really do stay on Earth with the people they loved most, in some form. It's not a lie, or a figure of speech. I begged God to let me tell you this, because I knew as well as He did that you would suffer unfairly if I didn't. And...and he agreed. One on condition...Diane, I've been killed in this battle hundreds of times since the day I died. Every night, I relive the entire experience; it's the only way for me to keep my soul grounded here completely, because part of life is suffering. I happily died over and over until I got this chance...because no pain is more powerful than my love for you. And I know...I know you feel the same, sweetheart.

"So sweetheart, I came to say this: I love you so much, and I can't wait until the day we're together again, for good. In the mean time...I'll be watching out for you. The world doesn't have to be cold."

She whimpered. "Please don't leave me, Paul...please, stay..." she brought his forehead to her lips, and kissed him. "Please..."

"I've done what no soul has been willing to do in centuries..." Paul replied. "And if I could give up paradise and stay here with you...sweetheart, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I'll always still be here with you." The morning sun, which had been lighting the sky, suddenly broke the horizon and spilled bright, orangey light on both of them. "Always, I swear." He squeezed her hand again, and smiled. "It's time for me to go.'

Diane wanted to scream at him, shake him, swear at him and make him stay just a second longer...but...but she knew she couldn't. She steeled herself, and said, "H-how will I know...what's you?"

He leaned up, grunting in pain, and kissed her on the lips, and they were so warm. "You'll know...you'll know." His kind, dark eyes stared at her longingly for anther moment. Diane suddenly felt his heart in chest suddenly grow weaker, slower. This was it. She started crying again, but this time silently. "See you later."

She squeezed her eyes shut to bite back a sob, and then opened them. When she did, her arms were wrapped around her. Paul was gone.

Before she could break down completely again, she felt the morning light tickle her eyelids, and brush against her cheek. When it did, she suddenly smiled. Her tears dried up, and...and...

...and she laughed, for the first time in a long time.

The sunlight was warm.

Picture and story inspired by the song "Unknown Soldier" by Breaking Benjamin on the album "Phobia"