The seventh day in the month of December, year nineteen hundred and fourteen
If I were back at home, the sight of snow would delight me to no end. Now, I know that the frozen crystals tumbling from the sky are little more than a death sentence for many. We are weakened from hunger and disease, traumatised from the constant explosions, and we can do little else but wonder who will be the next man to die. Sébastien has protected me ever since the cool winter air first blew over the battlefield. Now, amidst the snow falling ever more rapidly, we are huddling next to each other for warmth. I can almost pretend that he is my husband, holding me close and telling me that everything was going to be alright.
He is warm, and I love him dearly. I need him beside me.
But I must get my head out of the past if I want to survive. Armand cannot cloud my thoughts, I must not let him, even if he is the reason why I am here. The memories of the times we shared together are incredibly dangerous, as I find that they sneak up on me without so much as a warning, pulling me into sorrow. The thoughts like to come at night time, while I am asleep, and I can sometimes cry for up to an hour without even being aware of the fact before either Sébastien or Alain wake me. They are incredibly helpful, but I want nothing more than to be held by my husband, and I do not know, now, if that will ever be the case.
I still write letters to Armand, and I try not to make them appear as though my hands are trembling with each word placed upon the page in thick black ink. With each letter, I must throw more copies away, for fear that they will not be convincing enough. Alain keeps calling me ‘paranoid’, as he often watches over my shoulder when I write. Sharing a bed does not allow for much privacy, to my disdain. Luckily, Sébastien is not as nosy, and I believe he has fallen asleep with his arms around me. His moustache tickles my neck, much like the one of Armand when we slept together. The very way he breathes, it is ever so similar to that of my husband…
My thoughts, no matter where they start, always end with him. Oh, God, why do You curse me in this way? I am trembling once again, and no longer with cold. It is so hard to keep tears from spilling over and dampening the page, which Sébastien informed me would soak through several pieces of paper, making it even more difficult to write. Yet, as tears blur my vision, I am afraid that this entry will not be entirely legible anyway.
I do not want to be here anymore. It is cold. I am hungry. I long to touch my husband, yet I know that he will never be aware of my existence.
There must be a way to get out of here. If I want to survive, I must forget about him.
I must forget about him.
Forget about who? I do not know.
If only I had thought of this sooner! What is the point of putting all of my energy into something that will never work? If Armand loved me, he would have stayed at home. But no, he loves his country more. He is willing to die in the name of France. But not I. If I should die, it will be as a coward dies; for himself. I must confess to Armand I am here, and I will consequently be shot. That sounds like a brilliant solution, as I would no longer have to suffer through this Hell. It is getting even colder – if I do not wish to lose my fingers, I must stop writing. Yet, I do not want to stop.