After realizing death hadn’t come to greet him, that his beating heart still nourished his so-called fluttering life, he admitted that fear had nailed his feet to the ground. Not even the desire to protect his family could help him overcome the terror peering into his eyes, the horror that stabbed him through his nose, and the warm coldness which blanketed him in despair.

With those thoughts piling up inside his mind, Pierrot instinctively cupped his mouth. The sensation of acid forcing its way out of his stomach burned his throat. It took him everything within his strength to avoid repeating what had happened in the bathroom. But with just one push–the image of his comrades’ lives vanished from existence–he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

In reality, he was afraid of dying. 

He rushed to the outside, hand still cupping his mouth as his last ditch effort to avoid spilling what he had consumed onto the cottage’s floor. Disgust broke the dam, and once he reached outside where the scent of grass swayed around, he let it all out. 

Hurk!

A flood akin to that of a waterfall came rushing down from his mouth. He gagged a few times. Every time that happened, murky and transparent liquid poured down in rapid succession. His eyes also teared up. It took him a bit of time to adjust himself, letting his stomach rest from all the contractions.

On the ground, pieces of digested fish swam in the pool of his vomit–still dead. Around it was rice, squeezed and mushed all together into a white paste with a color that contrasted the ground underneath. Stepping on it would cause a soft sensation that tickled his feet and crept up his nerves like a vine. And not to anyone’s surprise, he didn’t dare to do it. Even now, the aftertaste of today’s breakfast stuck on his tongue with a touch of uncomfortable warmth on the surface.

The whiplash reaction was stronger than he had anticipated. 

Pierrot realized he needed to distract himself.

It was then that he turned around, noticing an item propped up next to the door. It was simply a nice broom without too much to talk about it. He then decided what to do to pass the time. 

Sweeping. 

It might not be the most high-octane action where sweat (unless the dusts were stubborn) and blood (unless the broom was covered in spikes) were required. No clash of steel. No adrenaline rush filling the body with strength. Just a simple act of making the floor spotless. 

For Pierrot, who had lost an arm, it would challenge him to adapt, and what other activities could do that better than such a simple activity. Step by step, starting from small. 

So he did. 

With the broom in his left hand, Pierrot entered the cottage again–his next battlefield. 

Sweeping back and forth, Pierrot focused on the dirty spots. Its head made a swooshing sound against the wooden floor. Soft and gentle, he sneaked around to avoid bothering Helena deep in her slumber. 

Pierrot found it difficult at first. It was uncomfortable, feeling the absence of something that should have been there. But after a while, his movements got sharper. His accuracy improved over time. His left arm became much better at controlling the broom. It was still far from perfect, but he felt relief washing his worries of being unable to do basic stuff such as this anymore. This feeling propelled him to continue what he was doing until he finished.

Now the floor was all clean. 

“Well done, myself,” he encouraged himself.

It wasn’t fulfilling enough, however. He felt that he was still capable of doing more. If anything else, being passive didn’t suit him. At the very least, he wanted to move and sweat. 

With that in mind, Pierrot went outside. The world around him had darkened a little, with a soft, orange hue getting more intense in the distance. He tried paying no attention to it, as doing so would remind him of another war that might be happening on a different side of this kingdom. So he began sweeping outside too, but not before piling up dirt on top of where his vomit lingered. 

Whenever there were dead leaves and twigs, he pushed them aside. He circled the cottage, and when he had done half of a circle, something caught his eye. Amidst the beautiful flowers, there were several patches of dead grass, and alongside them were dying flowers with petals scattered on the ground. Their color had withered away as they bowed down, no strength within them to keep the stem from standing up. 

The fact that Helena still kept them showed how much she was fond of flowers. To Pierrot, that was admirable. 

Soon enough, Pierrot completed a lap around the cottage. He was already sweating, though he wasn’t planning to stop either. After entering the cottage for the umpteenth time, he took a napkin and drenched it in water. For how he squeezed the excessive liquid soaked in it, well, I’d leave that to your imagination. Simply pressing the piece of cloth as hard as he could with his only left hand, twirling it in the air until the water decided to splash everywhere, or drinking it to keep himself dehydrated–the details didn’t matter, all that mattered was him having a proportionally-wet napkin.

Anyway.

Using this time he had for himself, he began wiping the surrounding furniture, which helped him to realize something else. Without his right arm, balancing his weight became a task he had to do consciously. Leaning too much in the direction where he was scrubbing could lead to a fall. For someone whose height was average amongst other soldiers, he felt pity for those who were taller given they suffered from the same condition.

The time it took for him to complete this task–giving no mercy to dirty and dusty spots all over the cottage–almost reached half an hour. His saving grace was the lack of small objects he had to pick up and put down. Also, it served as a workout, so he didn’t mind.

The rest of his day was all about doing chores. Whatever he could think of, he would do it–finding gaps where dust had accumulated or pesky spiderwebs near the ceiling. After doing so much of this, it might become his new hobby in no time. 

Before he knew it, the sky had turned dark. Once he stepped outside, the caresses of the wind became much colder now. It bit into his skin, sinking its teeth until he felt the bones covered within his flesh trembling. The flowers from one corner to another were swaying as long as the wind begged them to, soaking in the peacefulness amidst the air.

Yes, peaceful–one word Pierrot would use to describe his surroundings.

Away from the dread of bodies being mangled….Away from the shrieks of terror….

He sat down on one of the stairs. Now he had all the time in the world for himself, basking in this stillness, which wasn’t bad at all. However, he couldn’t help but frown. He felt undeserving of such privilege. The blood smeared on his hands couldn’t be washed just by atoning. 

As that thought tore his mind apart, the door behind him creaked, followed by the sound of soft steps and a yawn.

“I-it’s…, dark already…?” It was Helena with hair all ruffled up. She was rubbing her half-shut eyes, trying to scratch the drowsiness away. 

“Good evening,” Pierrot answered. Compared to how awkward he had been before, this time words rolled up more easily from his tongue. “How was your sleep?”

“Nghhh….” she groaned, still walking between the realm of consciousness and unconsciousness. “I think so…, I had a pleasant dream.”

Feeling interested in what Helena had to say, Pierrot kept quiet, but his eyes were glued to the woman. 

“I’s a meadow….Very beautiful with so many flowers…, you should have seen it with me too, Pierrot.”

“I see.” Pierrot smiled hearing that. “Glad to hear that.”