|| α мυя∂єяєя ωαℓкѕ уσυя ѕтяєєт тσηιgнт ||
It was surreal to be home. To be back in civilisation. To walk down paved roads and see solid brick houses and freshly mowed green grass. All these people in their safe houses, living their daily lives with no knowledge of what occurred on the other side of the world, no idea what they sent their sons across too. For Camden it had been... hell. A form of it at least. He carried the scars and the guilt, the blood forever soaked into his hands. A dead man walking. In his case literally. It had been almost three years since he'd last seen a friendly face, since the bomb had blown up his convoy and torn him from any hope of safety. Three years since his family would have been given the news that he was dead. The thought of his little brother suffering the pain of losing his brother and his mother? Guilt he couldn't breathe through. Yet cold fear when he knocked on his old family home and a stranger answered. A man he didn't know, who told him they had bought the house some time ago. They didn't know what happened to the previous tenants, it had been a closed sale. Camden had been polite, maybe a little gruff and then door was slammed. It seemed the right move to cross the street and visit the Whittemore's to see if they knew anything about where his father could have gone but they were no longer living their either. Finding himself seated at the bus stop, shaking hands curling around the strap of a small rucksack that contained everything he owned in the world, Camden realised that he had come home to a place that was no longer his home. No forwarding address, no one he knew and those that he could remember probably wouldn't help someone claiming be a dead guy. So Camden did all he could think of; he went to visit the Sheriff's station.
