My dearest, Evelyn,
I've made myself a new promise that if I were ever to leave this place alive, I would, from then on, devote my life to you and solely to you. I would build the meadow you always dreamed of and paint it with lilies and mums, and walk with you down the arches I would build, as the smell of the flowers bathed us in their sweetness.
I do remember my promise to you, that I would go back to you, that I would hold you in my arms again. However, that promise seems as fantastical and far as the dreams of you sleeping under the shade of the orange tree where I met you.
I wish you never had to see what I see, feel what I feel. The fear has never felt so deadly, and death seems just a second away, an inch behind me, breathing down its winter on my neck.
When we met, I said that if I could, I'd give you the heavens, yet now the heavens don't seem that beautiful a gift. Now the skies vomit death in the form of lasers and clusters; now the skies are soaked in red, and it rains blood.
I can't sleep. I can barely eat, and what I do manage to force down comes out in minutes. The bodies are blown away in such quantity, with such force, that a body blown away a day ago can rain down in pieces by the next sunrise. Our tents don't stop the rain; they stop the guts and the blood from falling on us.
I miss you.
Your beloved,
Uzchear
I miss you too, my love. This is the last thing I have of you. A piece of paper