Blood and Sweat

The fog rolled in blurring the lines of the brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Even with the full moon hanging so handsomely in the night sky, it was hard for her to see ahead. She had spent the past twelve hours bandaging wounds and delicately wiping dirty tear-stained faces. Everything ached inside and out. With each step she took her dress and undergarments came together creating a sound that became a rhythm helping her forward. She would have been happy to find a wagon filled with bales of hay if only to climb in and sleep. That was a fantasy. She had to get home. She had one there that needed her, too.

Her shoulders felt heavy. Her feet hurt. She wanted to wear boots so badly. Men's boots. They looked so comfortable. Her shoes pinched her toes. They were always the first things she took off when she got home.

She knew she smelled of blood and sweat, not all of it hers. The fog was making everything damp. Loose strands of her hair were sticking to the back of her neck. She kept having to wipe the moisture from her face. Was that from the fog or was she crying?

She was crying. She sucked in a big gulp of air and when she let it out she heard herself moan. Covering her mouth with her hand didn't stop the sound. It started from a place deep within her and wouldn't be muted. She started to run. Her legs protested but she had to get home. She lifted her skirts so that she could move easier. Stupid clothes! Why couldn't she wear pants as men did?

It became hard to focus. The fog and her tears made her vision swim. Letting go of the dress with one hand, she wiped her eyes again. She felt nauseous and it was hard to breathe. Turning the corner, she almost slipped and fell. Her muscles burned but there was home. The only house with a light in the window. Home.

She forced her legs to move. Reaching into the folds of her garments, she pulled out the key and opened the front door. Closing it behind her, she sank to the floor. Her hair had fallen out of the bun she had carefully pinned atop her head yesterday. As her breathing steadied, so did she.

She looked across the room. There was the wash bowl and pitcher full of fresh clean water he always left for her before he went to bed. Reaching for her shoes, she untied them, pulled them off, and set them at their place next to her husband's boots.

Looking again across the room, she got up and started undressing herself remembering to dim the light first. Leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind her, she picked up the pitcher and poured the water into the wash bowl. Grabbing the clean rag sitting nearby, she cleaned off the remnants of the past hours knowing that her mind would never be as clean as her skin.

Moving the curtain that separated the bedroom from the rest of the house, she crawled into bed next to her husband. As always, he turned over, gently taking her in his arms he tucked her head under his chin. His smell, his arms, and his love surrounded her. It replaced her pain and misery with lightness and within seconds she fell into a deep sleep.