Christmas, December 25, 1683

Christmas, December 25, 1683

fiction
edward w pritchard

I am here to bless you my son said the Priest as he rolled the blanket down covering my nose and mouth. The Doctor had covered my face with the blanket, probably to keep me warm, after he deemed me too far gone to treat. For the last ten minutes despite my wounds and pain and the severe bleeding the thing that was bothering me was my treatment at the hands of the Doctor and his assistant. He is only a captain, I am a Colonel, imagine leaving a wool blanket over a man's mouth.

The Priest is no better. He's not even French, Spanish Basque I think. He has mistaken my attempts to communicate with religious fervor on my part. I cannot talk and my struggling to tell him about the Doctor's treatment has been misinterpreted by him as me trying to make amends with God. I can tell by the ridiculous look in his eyes. He's choking with glee.

Is this how I am to leave this world. The bleeding to death from three wounds is not so bad, our enemy were just doing their job, I have done the same many times
to others. It's the mistreatment and disrespect by your comrades that really hurts. Gods what a way to leave this world. I Henri, Leclerc deserve a better sendoff.
end