Today was the day for living, for tomorrow he would die.

The strong liquor burned his throat as it traveled down his esophagus. He relished the feeling. With each sip from his glass, his mind wandered further and further away from the events that waited for him the next day. He couldn't think, wouldn't think, of the inevitable death that stood before him. He would drink instead. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd succumb to alcohol poisoning instead of having his torso blown off in the middle of a Vietnamese jungle.

Christian had been drafted.

February 2, 1972 was the fateful day the U.S. government decided to fuck over all of its young men, once again. Not even a year after Christian turned 20. For three months, three whole months, Christian sat with the knowledge that his life had been legally terminated - and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He had no money, no education, no family, no connection to any big shots who could pull some strings. He was the perfect candidate. He half thought to pretend to be retarded. Surely a poor sap like that wouldn't be fit to serve in the war - but he had too much pride to go through with it.

His draft number was 27, which give him a bit more time than the poor bastards who were 1. For three months he deluded himself into thinking that by the time he was actually shipped out, the war would be over, or they would fulfill their quota of how many soldiers they needed; but who was he kidding? Hundreds of young men were dropping like flies each day. There would never be enough. They would always need more.

Two weeks after the draft lottery, Christian received his card in the mail. They got to 27 that fast? He thought to himself. He was given ten days to report to his local draft board, which of course he waited until the last minute. For a week and a half, he contemplated running away, but he had no money and no passport. He was stuck. Once he met with the board, they deemed him fit for induction, to which he had no probable reason to object. After his induction, the next day he was sent off to basic training for nine weeks. From there, he was sent back home for thirty days before he was deployed.

He wondered why they even bothered sending him home. There was no one there waiting for him, or mourning his imminent death. He was broke and alone - maybe they did him a favor by drafting him. He took a final gulp of his liquor, before sliding off the bar stool and stumbling towards the door.

"You gonna pay for these?" The bartender grunted, his face scrunched up in irritation. A bead of sweat pooled on the corner of his mouth before it was lost inside of his grey beard.

Christian turned around, a crooked, sarcastic smile spread across his face. "I'm being sent off to 'Nam tomorrow," he called back.

The bartender pursed his lips, a small glint of remorse in his eyes. He shook his head, replacing his fleeting expression of emotion with annoyance. "Just… Get outta here, kid."

Christian stumbled out of the door, the crisp night air biting at his skin. He welcomed the feeling, as it reminded him that he was alive. He slunk to the ground, feeling the concrete underneath his skin, the smell of leather and alcohol lingering in the air. He took a deep breath, trying to log the smell of a drunken night in Seattle into his memory.

"There won't be concrete where I'm going," he mumbled to himself, his face against the ground.

The wind blowed against his skin, biting at every inch of his face. He thought of what death would be like, or what happens after death to be more specific. Was it just a pool of nothingness? Heaven? Hell? He couldn't think of which option was worse. A small, fleeting thought crossed his mind: what if he didn't die? Instead of being killed, he'd become a killer; and he felt that was an infinitely worse punishment. He breathed slow and deep, his mind whirling with sounds of explosions and the smell of gunpowder.

"Sir… Do you need help?" A meek voice called out. A pale, brown-haired girl looked down at him, her eyes filled with concern. A pair of thick, round tortoiseshell glasses adorned her face, making her look nerdier than she already did. Christian thought it was cute; she looked like a librarian - or maybe it was the alcohol making him think so.

"Any help I've ever needed would've only been useful three months ago," he grumbled, pressing his forehead deeper into the cool concrete.

The girl slunk into a kneeling position, slowly and carefully. She angled her body closer towards him, "Do you know where you are? Is there someone who is supposed to be looking after you?" She asked, worried. To Christian, however, it sounded patronising.

"I'm drunk, not a simpleton," he barked, turning away from her. He stood up quickly, causing his head to swim and his body to stumble. He tried to grab onto something, but only grasped air. He fell back onto the ground, scraping his elbow in the process.

"Are you okay?" She asked, rushing to his side. A small prick of blood emerged from Christian's elbow, the small, dull pain barely phasing him.

"Yeah," he grunted, shrugging her off.

"Do you need to call someone? You can't drive like this," she remarked.

"Yeah… I guess. Don't really matter, though," he bellowed, "I'm gonna die, anyway."

"What would make you think that?" The brown-haired girl asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

"Draft," he answered simply. It was one small word, but its meaning was loaded. The girl's eyes widened, a hint of realization setting in, quickly followed by sadness.

"My brother was drafted," she whispered, looking down. Her blue eyes lingered on the dark concrete, staring for so long that she couldn't make out what she was looking at anymore. A stark silence settled between them, neither of them sure of what to say.

"Well, is he dead?" Christian blurted out. He wasn't quite sure why he even asked, considering this girl's brother was of no importance to him. Perhaps a small part of him wanted confirmation that the war was as much of a death sentence as he thought it to be, or maybe an even larger part wanted confirmation that it was not.

The girl shrugged. "He hasn't written in a while…" She didn't finish her thought.

Christian frowned, tightening his fists. "It's not fair, ya know," he cried. "It's just… Not fair."

He looked toward her, searching her face for a confirmation of his injustice, but there was no emotion swimming in her blue eyes.

"We should get you home, it's late," she replied. She stood, brushing the dirt off of her skirt. She held her hand out towards him, almost positive that he wouldn't be able to stand on his own without stumbling again. Christian refused her offer, rising into a kneeling position first, then pushing off of his right foot to stand up.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, turning around and walking away without another word. The girl trailed behind him, her hands meekly entangled behind her back. "Do you know where you're going?"

He sneered. "Yeah, do you? 'Cause it seems like you're followin' me."

"I am," she answered. "You don't seem to be in the best condition, so.."

"You don't have anywhere to be?" Christian asked gruffly, tripping over a hole in the ground. He clutched a light pole to keep steady. The girl placed her hand on his bicep, trying to hold his weight, but he brusquely shrugged her off. "You're mighty touchy," he mumbled, slightly annoyed.

"I was at my friend's party, but didn't really like it."

"Why not?"

"There were drugs there," she answered, ashamed, as if she had just admitted that she murdered someone. "And drinks."

"So?" Christian questioned, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, it would be improper of me to participate in that sort of, um, lifestyle."

"Are you some sort of church nut?"

"No," she scoffed, laughing slightly. She shook her head at Christian's preposterous question. "I just don't think stuff like that is cool."

"It's not supposed to be cool. It's supposed to get you stoned. Or drunk."

"But there's no fun in that," she argued.

Christian scrunched up his face, confused and flabbergasted. "Yeah, you're a church nut."

She pursed her lips, looking down. Her hands fell back into position behind her back, her long mahogany hair creating a shield around her face. She absentmindedly bit her lip, causing Christian to stumble once again. Her eyes snapped towards him, concern taking over her face once again. He ignored her eyes on him, and tried to ignore the image of her biting her lip even more.

"So… Where do you live?"

"Thinking of spending the night?" Christian quipped.

"Oh, no, never," she answered quickly, a pale blush spreading over her cheeks and neck. "I don't, I wouldn't do something like that," she mumbled quietly, more to herself than to Christian. She straightened her skirt again and made sure all the buttons on her blouse were done.

"Then why'd ya ask?"

"I wanted to know how long we had to walk."

"You're taking me home and you say you're not that type of girl?" Christian remarked, trying to get a rise out of her. She didn't answer, instead she continued to look straight, ignoring Christian's penetrating gaze.

"It's about five more minutes," he divulged, feeling guilty for some reason. She nodded. Silence settled between them once again, making Christian tired. The streetlights all blurred together, creating a faint glare that hurt his eyes. His body felt warm and sweaty, even though it was cool outside. "How old are you?" He asked, trying to distract himself from his discomfort.

"Seventeen," she answered, not missing a beat.

"Jesus," he exclaimed, "And you're out here alone at this time of night?"

She giggled. "You sound like an old geezer."

He cringed. "You should head home, I'm fine."

She looked at him before quickly averting her gaze, that same pale pink blush spreading across her face. "I was supposed to spend the night at my friend's pad, but I left… And you seemed like you needed help," she replied quietly.

He ran his fingers through his hair, wondering how he got stuck with this unbelievably young and polite brown-haired girl. Her innocence and good cheer was… Slightly irritating to him. He nodded away at her explanation, but still pondered how she was going to get in touch with her friend. "And what about your friend?"

"Do you have a telephone?"

He pursed his lips. "Yeah," he responded.

"Then I'll call her and tell her to pick me up once I get you home safely."

He sighed. He didn't feel that drunk; so drunk that he needed the help of a seventeen-year-old, but in all honesty he couldn't feel that much at the moment anyway.

"Fair enough," he groaned. A couple moments passed before he pointed towards the end of the street, the cracked pavement and lack of street lights signaling that they had entered a run down part of town. "My house is through that alley," he murmured.

Christian continued towards the alleyway for several seconds before he noticed that the brown-haired girl was not following him. He turned around quickly, immediately regretting that decision when his head spun and he tripped over his own feet for the fourth time that night. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, small flecks of blue and yellow lights emerging behind his tightly closed eyelids. When he opened them, he noticed the girl looked apprehensive. Suddenly he realized, "I'm not trying to get over on ya," he exclaimed, bewildered. He placed a hand on the back of his neck, feeling slightly embarrassed. The girl probably thought he was a murderer. He stood and looked at her for a second before quickly turning away. "Well...Good night," he called behind his shoulder as he sauntered off, slightly relieved he was finally able to ditch the mousey-looking girl that had accompanied him home, but feeling like an idiot all the same.

"Wait," she replied, "I still need to call my girl-friend."

He nodded, inwardly sighing. His last night on Earth was not turning out to be as majestic as he wanted it. They walked through the alley and took a slight left, revealing a small, dilapidated townhouse. The eggshell colored paint looked to be almost completely chipped away, while the window panels had began to slide off and slip into the yard that lay overgrown. As he felt the long blades of grass brush up against his pant leg, he swore he could feel the sweltering heat on the back of his neck and the hiss of a hundred snakes between his ears.

"Family estate," he joked, gesturing towards his home.

The girl smiled at him, her lips upturned in the warmest and most genuine of ways. Christian slowly and carefully walked up the stairs towards his front door, his head still swimming immensely. He turned the knob and shoved the door open, spreading his left arm out wide to welcome her. He didn't bother locking his door - it's not like he had anything worth stealing. He turned on the lights after following her inside.

The girl carefully stepped over the threshold of his home, taking in the stark and bereft surroundings. There wasn't much furniture, except for the small coffee table that housed a broken-down radio and a suede recliner that sat next to it. There were appliances in the kitchen, including a small phone that hung on the wall, but that was about it. She could only imagine what it looked like upstairs.

"Phone's over there…" Christian trailed off, a splitting pain rushing through the side of his head. "I'm gonna…" He rattled off, stumbling up the stairs.

The girl watched his form disappear up the stairs before she made her way towards the kitchen. She gingerly picked up the phone, placing it to her ear. She waited to hear a dial-tone, but there wasn't one. Brushing it off, she placed her finger in the small opening and rotated the dial clockwise. She repeated the steps until she had entered the entirety of her friend's number, all to no avail. She placed the handset gently back onto the cradle.

At that moment, Christian decided to join her in the kitchen. As she turned to face him, she had to keep her mouth from falling open. From the moment she had laid eyes on Christian's slumped over, drunken form, she noted how attractive he was. A "stone fox" girls her age would call him. From his tousled, unruly hair, to his muscular arms and angular jaw, everything about him screamed perfection. Now, with his hair wet, causing water droplets to fall onto his exposed chest, and his pants hanging seductively off of his hips, the girl didn't believe that anyone could be more beautiful.

"Your phone doesn't work," she murmured pathetically, making sure to not make eye contact with him. She could feel her cheeks burning. Christian frowned. He reached behind her, their bodies in close proximity, causing her to inhale quickly. She held her breath. Christian placed the receiver to his ear, wanting to see for himself.

"Huh," he grunted, amused. "Probably didn't pay the bill," he mumbled.

She frowned. "How am I supposed to get home?"

He rubbed his eyes, frustrated. "Well, you might've shoulda thought of that before you went walking alone late at night." He sighed. "There's a diner down the street, they have a phone."

She nodded, still afraid to breathe. After placing the phone on the cradle, Christian had rested his outstretched arm against the wall, effectively cornering the girl.

"What's your name?" He asked lowly.

"Ana," she replied, not missing a beat. She hesitantly looked up at him and was surprised when she met his lustful gaze. He reached down to remove her glasses.

"You're kinda pretty without these," he declared. He set them on the nearby counter.

She scoffed and looked away, her cheeks stinging with embarrassment. "Gee, thanks."

"Just joking," he lied. The cold water he had dunked his head into hadn't helped him sober up one bit, for his head remained cloudy and his vision ebbed and flowed like the water in a stream. As he stared at Ana, her porcelain skin and mahogany hair became infinitely more desirable to him. He looked at her mouth.

"Pretty lips," he murmured, stroking a finger against the pink rose petals that sat above her chin.

Goosebumps rose on her skin and her stomach filled with butterflies. Every touch he placed on her skin felt like hot coals. She breathed deeply, anticipating his next move. "Have you ever been kissed?" He asked. Ana wanted to be offended - she was graduating high school this year for God's sake, but then she realized that she probably looked as lame as she actually was.

"Once," she answered meekly.

"Not enough," Christian tsked, leaning in to place his lips upon hers. She pulled away, turning her head the opposite direction. What was she doing in a strange man's house? She asked herself, puzzled and ashamed of her actions. Why was she even in shoulders length of a man that wasn't fully dressed?

"No," she demanded. "I'm not that… Type of girl."

"You wouldn't even give a kiss to a dying man?"

Ana peered up at him, recognizing the playful lilt to his voice, but also noticing the terror that lingered in his eyes. He stood straight and tall, his whole demeanor screaming confidence and sex-appeal, but she couldn't ignore the boyish fear and insecurity that lingered underneath. He thought he was going to die. There was a very plausible chance he would. As she looked at him, she focused on his fear-stricken eyes and not her head turning up towards him, or her toes lifting her up slightly to place her lips upon his.

She questioned herself in that moment, confused, but all too willing. Was it Christian's good looks? Was it her embarrassment of how inexperienced she was? Was it her frustration with needing to fulfill the "good girl" role, so that she'd never be a disgrace to her family like her hippy friends? Or was it simply just the draft, and how it teared apart everything and everyone, leaving no prisoners? A thing like that does cause people to act a little crazy.

A/N: I researched as much as I could, but it still doesn't compare to actually living during that time. My apologies if things are slightly inaccurate. If anyone has any memories they could share, I'd really appreciate it!

P.S. Washington's legal age of consent is 16, so don't get your panties in a bunch.