Wild with all regrets, p.1
Wild with All Regrets, page 1
Copyright © 2023, E.L. Deards
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2023
Printed in the United States of America
Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-487-9
E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-488-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022915564
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To EL, who largely inspired this work.
Foreword
The title of this novel is taken from a poem by Wilfred Owen, written for Siegfried Sassoon in 1917.
When I was around fifteen years old, I found myself sitting in my 10th grade English class, wondering how anyone could bear to study nothing but poetry for an entire semester. I was about to escape into the realm of the daydreamer, when I was asked to read the following poem, written by Wilfred Owen and published posthumously.
Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
For the first time in my life, a form of literature beyond the novel, play, or short story had spoken to me. The grim and bloody tapestry Owen was able to weave before my eyes left me dumbstruck— the casual attitude around death, the grim normalcies of the terrors that surrounded them, the bitter, miserable acceptance.
I wanted to know more about this man, about the war he fought in and protested against.
Wilfred Owen was born in 1893, the eldest of four children born to a middle class family in Shropshire. He discovered his love of poetry when he was eleven, but was unable to afford the university of his choice. He took courses in botany and English, and eventually moved to France to teach.
He enlisted to fight for England in World War I, and initially couldn’t empathize with his fellow soldiers, finding them to be boorish and plain. After witnessing the horrors and trauma of war, and after being wounded badly himself, Owen’s thoughts on the war began to change. He was diagnosed with shell shock, and was sent to recuperate in Edinburgh. There he met Siegfried Sassoon, who would change the course of his life.
His feelings towards Sassoon were close to that of hero worship, and he felt unworthy to even light his pipe. Sassoon in turn held a warm affection for Owen, and introduced him to a circle of gay and bisexual artists in Scarborough, who influenced him greatly. Wilfred Owen was himself a homosexual, and incorporated elements of homoeroticism into his works at the encouragement of the writers and artists he had met. Much of the written evidence of Owen’s homosexuality has been lost, as his brother Harold removed and likely destroyed any parts of letters or diaries which he thought might be questionable.
Owen returned to the front after Sassoon was badly injured, as he felt that it was his duty to add his vocal opposition to the war now that Sassoon was unable. He wanted the truth of their misery to be shared with the world. Sassoon threatened to stab Owen in the leg if he returned, but Owen kept his plans secret until it was too late to change his mind.
Wilfred Owen was killed one week exactly before the Armistice, and was buried in a cemetery in France.
Sassoon waited for news of Owen’s return, only to hear about his death several months later. Sassoon had likely never engaged in a romantic or sexual relationship with Owen, but mourned his loss for the rest of his life.
I’ve always been deeply inspired by stories of LGBTQ+ people. Of having to hide such an important part of yourself, of having to lie in order to exist, of finding a love worth risking absolutely everything over.
Wilfred Owen’s story is beautiful, tragic, and his death was pointless and terrible. His life, his works, his journey of self discovery, and his great love of exposing the blood and filth beneath the surface were huge influences in writing this novel. I hope to honor his memory with this work.
1928
Lucas Connolly cleared away some of the gold and crimson leaves which cluttered the grave, and let his fingers skip along the smooth marble. The stone felt wet against his skin, and the chilly air cut through the thin fabric of his jacket. Grangegorman Cemetery was nearly empty, and Lucas was relieved for the privacy. This place had a beautiful silence to it, Lucas felt at peace here—Jamie would have liked it. He’d struggled with loud noises after being in the trenches, even when they were safe and away from the battlefield.
“I miss you,” Lucas whispered to Jamie’s grave. He never answered, obviously, although sometimes Lucas would shut his eyes and imagine that he had.
“Y’aright, boyo?” Jamie might ask, and Lucas would bump their foreheads together affectionately.
“Mm. Bit cold out though.” The soft thump of fabric as Jamie’s arm fell over his shoulders.
“It’s bloody October, you tit.” And he’d smile, Lucas would, too, and they’d marvel at how it felt like no time had passed.
The anniversary of Jamie’s death was always the hardest day of the year for Lucas, but never in his life had he felt as fragile as this: Jumping at noises in his home, seeing bloody Jamie in a crowd, and waking up in the night sweating, screaming, grasping at nothing. He’d attributed it to stress, but deep down that seemed an insufficient answer. There was no number of confessions in the world that could absolve him or wash away the sticky black tar that encased the shreds of his heart.
It never got any easier. None of this ever got any fucking easier. Even now, Lucas still found himself a wandering stranger in the world, chasing ghosts and clinging to memories. This time, somehow, it felt different. In one week, it would be ten years, and Christ, Lucas had somewhat expected to be better by now. Jesus, the fucking ten-year anniversary. If his grief was a marriage, it’d be doing great. All around him the world was bloody changing. And yet Lucas was still . . .
Fuck.
“Lucas?” A piercing call cut through the crisp air of the cemetery.
Ugh. Angela’s voice. What the hell was she doing here? He hugged his shoulders and prayed the grave was large enough to hide him from her hawkish eyes.
“I thought that was you!” She trotted over and waved at him, her slender hands wrapped up in black leather gloves. “You’re late, you ass! You were meant to meet me at the pub!”
Lucas glanced at his watch. Good lord, he was very late indeed. “Most people would have gone home to teach their tardy friends a lesson.”
She sat next to Lucas, her bottom squishing in the wet grass. “Yeah, well. Most tardy friends can’t be shamed into buying drinks. Besides, I already know you’re hopeless.”
“How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Mm, knowing you, I figured this was a safe bet. Unless you got tied up with the blokes at the docks but, it’s not sailing season, so. . . ”
Lucas glowered at her. He hadn’t traded at the docks in years.
“Plus, it’s soon, right? The anniversary.” She shivered briefly and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “You need a minute?”
“Yeah, Ange. Just give me a second.”
“Lucas . . . don’t take too long, all right? You spend too much time here as it is.”
The sound of her footsteps softened as she stepped away from Lucas. He shook his head, narrowing his eyes she’d still be in earshot, surely. Angela had no fucking business telling him how to spend his time, it wasn’t her life that was withering away in isolation. To be fair, she was the closest living friend he had these days, but that didn’t give her the right to tell him how to waste his own time.
Jamie was dead. He’d been dead for a decade. Their old flat in Dublin was long sold, and Jamie’s clothes and possessions largely missing, stolen, or sent back to some unknown grieving loved one. Jamie’s body was in a mass grave somewhere in the shell-torn fields of Belgium, never to be recovered. The tomb Lucas took so much comfort in was empty, but it hardly mattered. He’d saved up money for months to get the stone erected for Jamie; he’d even had the local priest check over his letters to make sure that the inscription would be perfect.
James A. Murray, Lieutenant of the Thirty-Sixth Ulster Division, killed in Belgium October 14, 1918. Honors include the Allied Victory Medal, the British War Medal, and the Victoria Cross, awarded for his death in the Battle of Courtrai and his bravery and tenacity in the Battle of Passchendaele.
Jamie’s face flashed in his mind, flesh rotting, bones cracking through skin, and a hollow laugh echoing between his ears. A bony hand reached out to cup Lucas’s cheek, his voice hollow, echoing . . . “Help me, Lucas. Jesus Christ, help me.” Lucas’s eyes snapped open, and he tried to catch his breath.
Jamie wouldn’t want to see him like this, breaking down in the middle of a cemetery. Jamie would chuckle softly, clap him on the shoulder, and tell him to keep his head on straight. “You’re better than this, Lucas,” he’d say, and Lucas would believe it, somehow.
Jamie’s had been an easy existence leading up to the war, maybe he hadn’t been ready for the horrors that faced him. The bombs, the shells, watching men being blown apart right in front of his eyes. Lucas had occasionally found Jamie alone in his hollowed-out room in the trenches, head in his hands, eyes glinting in the soft light of the lantern as he stared out into nothing.
“Jamie?”
A quivering silence. Hackles raised in anticipation. It was starting again; Jamie always got worse before he got better.
“Jamie.” Lucas had placed a hand on Jamie’s shoulder and flinched when those wide, manic eyes whipped around at him. “Jamie, it’s me. I’ve got you.”
The bombs fell anew, and Jamie flailed away from Lucas’s solid hand.
Boom. Boom. Screams in the distance, dust shaken free from their makeshift rooftop, Jamie covered his head with his arms. Before the shell shock. God, Lucas didn’t even like to think about it. Jamie would have run out to protect the others, would have covered Lucas with his bigger frame and stayed steady, stayed focused.
“Lucas . . . please . . . Jesus, help me. Help me!”
His pleading, desperate voice—begging him for help, those strong fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. It isn’t real, it isn’t real. Lucas fingered the button that he kept in his pocket and tried grounding himself, hoping to prevent this little blip from turning into more than it was. This isn’t happening. Jamie’s dead, he’s dead. He’s dead and he can’t talk to you, can’t see you, can’t touch you. You can’t help him now, idiot. Ground yourself. Lucas Connolly, it’s your fucking fault he’s dead, you’re suffering because of your own fucking choices.
“Lucas?” Angela called out, rushing over to him.
You deserve this. You deserve worse, you fucking coward.
“Lucas!” She shook his shoulders. “You’re all right, I’ve got you. We’re in Dublin, you’re safe, okay?”
Lucas was suddenly aware of the way his whole body was shaking as he gasped, how his fingernails were caked in dirt from where he’d clawed his way through the earth beside him. He found himself coughing, and he pulled Angela close, shaking his head as reality settled in. Jamie wasn’t dying. He wasn’t in danger. It had all happened already. It was too bloody late.
“I’m sorry.” He gasped, clutching at her coat, his hands slick with mud. He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or to Jamie, shit— he wasn’t sure of anything at all.
“I know.” Angela whispered, stroking his back. “S’why I don’t think you should be out here alone, okay? Come along, poppet. We were going to the pub, remember? Are you still up for it, or do you want me to take you home?”
Christ, he must have been in awful shape if Ange was willing to forfeit the alcohol he’d be expected to buy her. “It—I’m fine,” He muttered, pushing himself away from the grave. Lucas’s hand lingered, as it always did. He patted the stone and tipped his hat slightly. “I’ll see you,” he said softly.
Angie pulled him into a quick hug and held him there until his breathing slowed. “Y’aright, Lucas? You wanna talk about it?”
Lucas shook his head, eyes drifting to Jamie’s name. “Don’t worry. I think I’ve stewed in my memories long enough.” Besides, the clouds were clearing up, and Lucas strongly preferred to suffer poetically when the weather matched his mindset anyway.
Angela kept hold of his elbow until they reached the pub, her broad smile reassuring in the face of Lucas’s outburst. He truly appreciated her dedication to keeping things chipper.
“Rude bastard you are,” she said lightly. “Standing up a beautiful lady like that! The bartender couldn’t believe it—gave me a free round, he did!” She pulled off her coat as they arrived at the bar, plopping down in a comfortable booth. “So, guess what, smarty boots? Next round is on you. That, and you owe me for getting mud all over my lovely coat!” She kissed his cheek and fluffed up his hair. “Aw, that face! You’re like a little kitten! Careful now, or I’ll put you in a box and drag you home with me.”
“Jesus Christ, Ange,” Lucas mumbled, somehow feeling hungover already. “You ever figure out how to bottle that energy, you’ll make a goddamn fortune.”
“Don’t need it! Tom proposed finally!” She raised her glass to him and chugged her beer. “You’ll be my bridesmaid, right? I’ll get such a dress for you!”
Despite himself, Lucas smiled. “Gonna make an honest woman out of you, then?” he asked, signaling the bartender for another round of beer.
“Ah to hell with you, ya bastard,” she said, nudging him with her elbow. “Oh, you shoulda seen it, Lucas, he took me out to the garden, near the rosebushes—you know, the ones I planted with his mum last summer. And he took my hand and said, ‘Angie, my father’s going to disown me if I don’t marry you, so I’d best do it before such a time as he starts to think poorly of me!’” She paused, downing her beer. “I slapped him right on his cheek, so I did! Then he showed me this lovely ring, and I didn’t slap him again.” She laughed and shoved her hand in Lucas’s face so he could see it; a mischievous smile played over her lips. “He’s such a cock, bless me for loving him so.”
“And such a catch you are, Angie, I can’t believe no one’s snapped you up sooner,” he said over the brim of his glass.
“You had your chance, you little buggering bastard!” she teased back, pushing her thick glasses up her nose. “Least I didn’t have to get pregnant to get him to finally pop the question, which would’ve been quite undignified. Christ, what a proposal. He’s lucky to have a woman as understanding and sweet as I am!”
Lucas frowned at that, but he knew Ange had no way of knowing how his own parents had met. She wasn’t one to judge anyway, not even for his colorful social life. Truthfully, he was glad for her, glad that she’d managed to find happiness after the war.
She’d been an army nurse and patched Lucas together once or twice when he was in the trenches with Jamie. They’d go out sometimes when they were on leave; Jamie would come, too. They liked each other, they’d been a nice little group, but she’d always been much closer to Lucas. Maybe she just clicked better with Lucas, or maybe it was because—even then—Jamie had lost so much of himself. Lucas wondered if she even understood what all the fuss was about.
Lucas had admired Angie’s guts more than anything else. Her unwavering ability to sift through mounds of flesh and blood and shards of bone, somehow managing to rip life away from the jaws of death. Her love had been killed in the war, though they hadn’t even been stationed near each other. She was in Belgium, and he was in Germany. They hadn’t exchanged a word in person for years by the time she got his death notice. Angie had mourned, tied back her hair, finished the war with a black band around her arm, and somehow moved on with her life. Lucas liked to tell himself that she probably hadn’t loved Euan that much, considering the ease with which she’d gotten over her fiancé, but deep down, he knew that the abnormal behavior was his.
