Milky White Saigon (2/?)
anonymous
July 21 2009, 03:29:31 UTC
Alfred looked up with wide-eyes, eyes too dry to cry (and if they did it could only be blood). His mouth was agape, just a tad, as he recognized the young girl standing before him.
Vietnam was standing before him, hands clasped together in front of her. She was not wearing her usual green garbs; her hair is not in its usual style. She wore a form-fitting shirt that comes up to her chin and down on her hips. They had cut off right over her soldiers revealing shapely, milky arms, dark from the sun and almost golden in his eyes. Her legs were exposed, as she wore a skirt that cut off right in the middle of her thighs.
Alfred stared and stared at those legs, because he had so expected tough calloused skin.
But no, she looked soft, reachable, and he watched the skirt glide up her thighs as she sat next to him politely, pouring liquor into his half-full cup. She looked up at him with these huge beautiful eyes; deep brown irises glittered with the neon lights in the bar. Her lips were plump with light rouge, eyelashes long and dark with mascara. Her long, long hair was free of their restraints, spilling all around them, on his hands, on her thighs, on her chest, like black cobwebs.
Alfred gulped, as he’s sure he looks like a vagabond in comparison. Vietnam, his partial enemy in this body-count war, had drawn his attention, as he felt his heart pound endlessly against his ribcage.
“So, Alfred, let’s talk.” She folded her hands neatly on her lap, looking at him with the utmost attention (and he could see…malice? Anger? Or maybe even pity).
He looked at her hands, long fingers all of them dark and scarred.
“Alfred.”
Said nation cleared his throat immediately, “I see no reason to talk to an enemy nation.” He whispered, taking his glass carefully and sipping the liquor.
Vietnam pursed her lips, hands holding each other tighter. “And I see very much a reason to talk to you.” Her eyebrows furrowed, expression deep in feeling. “You know very well that this war can not go on. Not just for the sake of my people, but also for yours.”
Alfred knew very well, having seen as much blood as she had. All of the boys were delirious with war, rushing through the pages of their lives faster than necessary. Too many of them gone with time, becoming another book among the many dead. “It’s not my decision. What about you? Why do you keep fighting?”
“Same reason why you fought so many years ago.” Vietnam replied quickly, surprising Alfred. “You wished for your freedom, and I wish for mine as well.”
Alfred stared at her from the corners of his eyes, past Texas and into her eyes. “Commies…”
“Alfred!”
“I don’t want to fight this either!” Alfred noisily dropped his cup on the table. “You know what I mean, seeing boys and girls of all ages die like cattle, it’s disgusting! Not just my people, but also yours. Just the other day one of my boys was sobbing over this dead Vietnamese baby like a fucking woman, but all I could tell him was to fucking shut that noise and get back in line. That baby was just hanging in his arms like some doll, fucking UNNATURAL.” His voice was rising, but it drowned in the sounds of cheers and music. “And this one boy kept moping about some star-shaped hole or whatever the fuck, one of your boys had fucking died from an accident, couldn’t even see if he was HUMAN to begin with,” He stopped, leaning back on his seat and released a long sigh.
Vietnam was clenching her skirt, teeth gritted to the point of possible fractures. But she held composure, knowing that backing down, no matter what, is not an option. She can’t soften, because this was war. WAR.
Vietnam was standing before him, hands clasped together in front of her. She was not wearing her usual green garbs; her hair is not in its usual style. She wore a form-fitting shirt that comes up to her chin and down on her hips. They had cut off right over her soldiers revealing shapely, milky arms, dark from the sun and almost golden in his eyes. Her legs were exposed, as she wore a skirt that cut off right in the middle of her thighs.
Alfred stared and stared at those legs, because he had so expected tough calloused skin.
But no, she looked soft, reachable, and he watched the skirt glide up her thighs as she sat next to him politely, pouring liquor into his half-full cup. She looked up at him with these huge beautiful eyes; deep brown irises glittered with the neon lights in the bar. Her lips were plump with light rouge, eyelashes long and dark with mascara. Her long, long hair was free of their restraints, spilling all around them, on his hands, on her thighs, on her chest, like black cobwebs.
Alfred gulped, as he’s sure he looks like a vagabond in comparison. Vietnam, his partial enemy in this body-count war, had drawn his attention, as he felt his heart pound endlessly against his ribcage.
“So, Alfred, let’s talk.” She folded her hands neatly on her lap, looking at him with the utmost attention (and he could see…malice? Anger? Or maybe even pity).
He looked at her hands, long fingers all of them dark and scarred.
“Alfred.”
Said nation cleared his throat immediately, “I see no reason to talk to an enemy nation.” He whispered, taking his glass carefully and sipping the liquor.
Vietnam pursed her lips, hands holding each other tighter. “And I see very much a reason to talk to you.” Her eyebrows furrowed, expression deep in feeling. “You know very well that this war can not go on. Not just for the sake of my people, but also for yours.”
Alfred knew very well, having seen as much blood as she had. All of the boys were delirious with war, rushing through the pages of their lives faster than necessary. Too many of them gone with time, becoming another book among the many dead. “It’s not my decision. What about you? Why do you keep fighting?”
“Same reason why you fought so many years ago.” Vietnam replied quickly, surprising Alfred. “You wished for your freedom, and I wish for mine as well.”
Alfred stared at her from the corners of his eyes, past Texas and into her eyes. “Commies…”
“Alfred!”
“I don’t want to fight this either!” Alfred noisily dropped his cup on the table. “You know what I mean, seeing boys and girls of all ages die like cattle, it’s disgusting! Not just my people, but also yours. Just the other day one of my boys was sobbing over this dead Vietnamese baby like a fucking woman, but all I could tell him was to fucking shut that noise and get back in line. That baby was just hanging in his arms like some doll, fucking UNNATURAL.” His voice was rising, but it drowned in the sounds of cheers and music. “And this one boy kept moping about some star-shaped hole or whatever the fuck, one of your boys had fucking died from an accident, couldn’t even see if he was HUMAN to begin with,” He stopped, leaning back on his seat and released a long sigh.
Vietnam was clenching her skirt, teeth gritted to the point of possible fractures. But she held composure, knowing that backing down, no matter what, is not an option. She can’t soften, because this was war. WAR.
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