A bomb explodedâsomewhere to his left. A plume of orange dust clouded his vision, flecks of dirt sprinkling his cheeks. The cries of his brothers in arms rang in his ears, screams of pain, cries of fear, the calls of the dead and dying. In a moment of panic, guided by that ever right instinct to protect, he ran towards the anguished cries of the wounded, thinking not of the danger he ran towards but of those he could save. Another bomb went off. The ground disappeared from beneath his feet. Wind whipped by his ears. The ground suddenly reappeared, a hard slab of rock beneath his back, cracking his skull as he collided. Air left his shocked lungs. His vision turned red. Pain blossomed suddenly in his chest and a burning pain seared through his right arm. A joint in his neck cracked, sending a shudder of pain down his spine as he turned his head to look atâŚ.nothing. His arm was gone. Â
Shiro bolted upright, breath catching in his throat. Blood was dripping down his throat, but over the coppery tang he swore he could taste dirt, dry and bland and filling his lungs with crushing memories of a past he desperately wished to put behind him and forget. Â
His dreams were still choking him. Every night, they replayed in his mind, an ever repeating record that he could not break free from. Had he the power, he would have ripped the record from the turntable and smashed it upon the floor, going so far as to stomp the broken pieces until they were nothing but black vinyl dust. Alas, memories were not so easy to destroy, nor so concrete.Â
The ghost record paused momentarily, its trumpet of discord silent as he moved about his bedroom, feeling the carpet beneath his bare feet, tracing his hands over the surface of his dresser, grounding himself in the moment. Visions of dust clouds and blood splatter slowly grew hazy. The mist began to clear. In the wake of his terror, the light of a full moon drew his attention.Â
September 28. A warm autumn. The desert of America. That was where he was, when he was.Â
Padding slowly to the window, counting each step, forcing himself to feel the brush of carpet against his soles with each step, he clenched his fist. Back to the real world, he commanded himself. He had nearly done it, had almost shaken off the final fleeting images of his dream, when the slamming of a car door nearby made him jump and duck for cover. A wash of frustration flooded his mind and he struck angrily at the wall, jumping to his feet and staring angrily out the window in search of the cause of the offending noise.
A pair of violet eyes lifted from the street, drawn by his appearance at the window. The scowl on Shiroâs face immediately vanished. Neighbor, his mind supplied, seeing the young man and his mop of raven hair. Not a veteran like himself, but the son of one. Caretaker for a father as damaged as himself. Judging by the dark circles under the manâs eyes and the tired way his body sagged, his young neighbor had just returned from a late shift. Shiro found himself quite suddenly sympathetic to the manâs struggles and all too willing to forgive the slam of the car door. He raised a hand in acknowledgement.
His heart stuttered at the gentle smile directed at him, the manâs eyes softening slightly as he waved a hand in return. He was lost, Shiro realized the next day, as he sat in contemplation and turned over the nightâs troubling events. The suffocating memory of the dream did not linger so strongly that day, he was so enraptured by the sight of his neighbor, bathed in the glow of a full moon and a bright street lamp. It was a distraction he could happily look to.
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