Let them come. Let me die.

The unwanted thought came and Etienne Boucher sucked in air. He bent over the chopping block, fingers slipping in the blood. He pushed back, opened his eyes, and focused on his hands. They were cold from handling the icy pig. The scars shone silver against his bluish skin. He slowed his breathing, put the knife down, and checked his hands for cuts. His day was always spent with bloody carcasses. Too much blood. He shook his head. No cuts.

He stepped back to the table and willed his hand back into position to make the final cut through the hinge of bone. That done, he wrapped meat in two packages and put the larger slabs on a tray in cold storage.

Etienne heard laughter from the shop. Marcele, finishing a discussion about the age of the sausages in the cold case, completed the sale. He heard the tinkling doorbell as this last customer left.

“Monsieur Boucher?” His shop assistant stood at the door, her hands clutching her apron.

“Yes, Marcele, it’s time to close.”

“Thank you, sir.” He visualized her locking the front door, turning the placard, and drawing the shade. Quick and thorough, she would prepare the shop for tomorrow.

Etienne cleaned his workspace, honed and cleaned his knives, and mopped the floor. He walked back to the abattoir to ensure his apprentices had done the same. Satisfied, he locked the big door.

He ran hot water in the sink and rolled his sleeves, exposing his arms to the elbow. The small craters pitting his arms were difficult to wash. He applied soap and scrubbed them with a stiff brush. He was never gentle with his arms, even when the wounds were fresh. He rinsed the brush and the sink, rinsed and dried his hands, folded the towel, and hung it on the rack. He removed his apron and put it in the laundry bin.

Marcele stood at the door in her coat and hat, waiting.

He donned his hat and coat, put one package of meat into his bag already full of wine and sausages. Valerie would bring bread, cheese, and fruit. Etienne tucked the second package under his arm, set the alarm delay, and walked into the shop.

“Here, Marcele, for your supper.” He handed her the second package of meat.

“Thank you, sir,” she said as she put the package into her bag.

They left the shop through the front door. It was raining, thunder sounding in the distance, and Marcele opened her umbrella. Etienne was without, as usual. It wasn’t a heavy rain and he had lived through worse.

He said “bonne nuit” to Marcele as she turned to go. He and Valerie lived in a garden apartment a small distance from the shop. They had a good life.

He walked up the street, his head bowed. As a boy, he had loved rain. Splashing in puddles, riding his bicycle maniacally through a storm, raising his head to catch drops in his mouth. His love of rain died with his friends.

Etienne saw her, umbrella open, walking toward him. Valerie waved and smiled. His heart swelled. She waited for him at the entrance to their building. He touched her cheek with his fingertips. He loved every line on her face. She reached up and caressed the scars on his cheeks.

They entered their apartment and hung their coats in the closet. They moved into the large parlor. She turned and wrapped her arms around him.

He clung to her, breathing deeply of the scents that identified her always as the woman he loved. He moved to hold her face with both his hands and kiss her gently on one cheek and then on the other. She reached up to hold his elbows and moved her face to touch his lips with hers. Then she let him go and took his bag along with hers through the door into their kitchen. When it became apparent they wouldn’t have children, they renovated the apartment, combining rooms and creating well-loved spaces. The kitchen opened to a rooftop garden. Together they cooked, grew vegetables and herbs, and spoke of many things. The apartment was perfect for the two of them and no more.

“I thought I warned you about the rain.” She called to him.

“You did, but I wasn’t listening.” Etienne opened a bottle of wine and poured the red liquid into two glasses. He handed her one and took the other in his hand. They clinked and drank. She put meat and vegetables into the pressure cooker for stew.

He walked to the parlor door and looked at the photograph on the wall. Valerie found and framed it after he left for Vietnam. How young they all were. Six boys, no one could have called them men, in paratrooper uniforms, mugging for the camera. He stared at himself, his arms around Hubert Archambault on one side and Andre Blanc on the other. Little Charles Desjardins stood in front of the three and behind them stood the Chastain brothers, Maurice and Antoine. They were never apart from the time they were children.

When he came back, alone, friends would whisper about Dien Bien Phu. Etienne told them, “It rained.”

Let them come. Let me die.

The crack of lightning, booming thunder, and the smell of fire. Monsters roiled from the forest spitting lead, flaming balls shooting from their arms, showering him with burning metal. The ground heaved and shook. From a distance, he watched Maurice and Antoine ejected into the sky, ripped, and torn apart. A shock wave rippled the air as dirt, rocks, boulders, metal, wood, and body parts rained down. The screaming filled his brain.

He felt Hubert clutch his arm, felt the trench fill with bloody water. Falling shrapnel pierced and sliced their uniforms and the skin below. They clung to one another and bled.

Shrieking war cries surrounded them and, back-to-back, they faced the enemy. He fired his rifle again, and again, and again. Bullets whizzed past his head and plucked at his clothes. His back grew cold and he turned to see Hubert face down in the water. He sank to his knees, sludge cascading over his boots, and dropped his rifle in the muck.

Let them come. Let me die.

Etienne jerked awake, sweating. Let them come. Let me die. Another crack of lightning, this memory’s trigger, lit the room. Let them come. Let me die. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his chest heaving, and waited as his heart slowed. I’m alone now. Let me die. He rubbed his arm where Hubert’s touch had been.

He looked at the other bed where Valerie slept, unaware. Early in their marriage, they had shared a bed. One night, she had reached out to wake him from his nightmare. He awoke with his hands around her throat. The next day she bought twin beds and earplugs.

He stumbled to the kitchen for water. Squinting at the parlor door, he saw embers glowing in the fireplace. He saw the pillows strewn on the floor. Her robe was where he dropped it when their lovemaking started. He remembered the safety of her arms around his neck as he carried her to her bed. Her scent embraced him, her sighs filled his ears. He rubbed his face, feeling the wounds that had healed.

I’m alone now. Let me die.

Etienne closed his eyes and felt, again, the monsters run past him as he lay slumped against the timber. Medics found him clutching Hubert’s foot. Only after he returned to France, only after they picked metal and bone from his skin, only after the worst of the infection had subsided, did he learn that Andre and little Charles were blown to oblivion when Viet Minh artillery scored a direct hit on their position. Valerie held his hand and cried for them all.

I’m alone. Let me die.

He heard the bedroom door open, heard her soft footfall.

“Etienne?”

He felt the warmth of her body against his back. Felt her arms around his waist. Felt her kissing the welts on his shoulders. He took a deep breath.

Let me die.

“Etienne?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. She was the love of his life but she would never understand. Those who would were dead. As he should be. As he would be. Soon.