Degrees of Wrong by Anna Scarlett Read Free Book Online

him against my better judgment, to what I knew would be a bathroom where I would use the toothbrush to clean it. “That’s not very original, Lt. Pretty Princess,” I muttered as he beckoned me inside the long, reeking room—obviously the men’s. Still, relief washed over me. As a doctor, it would take a lot more than some excrement and poorly aimed urine to ruin my day.
    “Why change a perfectly adequate tradition?” He smiled, but I could tell by the crookedness that he was out of practice. “Get to work.” He handed me the toothbrush and waved me forth, as if to shoo me.
    I liked him better when he yelled. To accommodate his falsely pleasant tone, I stuck my tongue out at him—I owed this man nothing. At least I got him to scowl again before he left, instead of smiling like one of those creepy circus clowns who scare children.
    When I was sure he was gone, I cleaned enough space on the floor to sit and plopped down, flinging the defiled toothbrush as far away from me as I could. Drawing my knees to my chest, I wrapped my arms around them, putting my head down. As I drifted off to sleep, I acknowledged that a nap would do me considerable good. I told myself the slight headache percolating was probably from stress and lack of sleep—not a near-concussion from swan-diving into a certain captain’s rock-hard chest. Either way, an escape to oblivion was exactly what I needed.
    But the peace of oblivion shattered as the gore of yesterday resurfaced, the nightmare so real I could smell the smoke.
    After ascertaining what I already knew—that the children were dead—I left the field and headed toward the sound of gunfire. Terrified to the point of weeping, I pressed on, despite my sense of self-preservation pleading with me to turn around. The closer I got to the village, the more victims I found, either dead or dying. The living begged for me to kill them. Legs, hands, arms, feet. Limbs of all sizes, all ages, were scattered with the bodies, some in piles where groups of people had been the targets, some lying in solitude next to the poor souls who died alone.
    It was then that I realized I wouldn’t be saving anyone today. Not one of these gentle, kind people stood a chance against guns meant to bring down buildings. Awash with desperation, emboldened by a new purpose, I flung open my kit and began administering morphine to any breathing being I found—I couldn’t prevent death itself, but I could make it as painless as possible. Judging body weight by sight, I gave each their measure of relief. Acceptable degree of wrong.
    The tragic imbalance of supply and demand left me breathless, but I continued on, oblivious to the heaving sounds of artillery around me. Men, women and children swirled and staggered to their escape in varying degrees of panic and confusion. It reminded me of sheep being herded, though I’d never seen it done before. Many of them urged me to run too, but I remained at my task.
    I happened upon a black-clad soldier lying on his back, gripping his stomach. He wasn’t one of the massive warriors I’d seen earlier. Blood poured from between his fingers, and he stared up at me in horror, his body writhing in pain. Without hesitation, I knelt and injected him twice, granting him peace. It wouldn’t be long before that amount took effect, and I hoped his last memory was of the kind act, instead of the need for it.
    As I rose to press forward, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to the ground. Startled and unsure of his intent, I fought to break free. Even in his condition, he was easily stronger than me, pulling me closer until my face was inches from his. “Thank you,” he whispered.
    Stunned beyond speech, I nodded. His head fell back and his hand on my arm went limp. I caught it before it flung to the dirt, laying it gently beside him in a last measure of dignity.
    At that point, I’d taken the time to survey my surroundings. To my surprise, I found a two-sided conflict—black versus khaki. I