#starthur

It’s been years now but he still dreams about it.

Though they’re not really dreams.

But nightmares.

Nightmares of that night.

Of that barren mountain and its freezing soil. Of the sound of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder. Of the fear, the betrayal and the sorrow. Of the pain and the tears. Of the blood on his fingertips and his tongue, dark and metallic. Of hands that pull him closer, urging him to run, to not give up. Of the word “brother” and others left unsaid.

And it’s one of those nights where he wakes up screaming, gasping for air. Coughing violently, feeling disoriented and lightheaded. Sheets drenched in cold sweat underneath his rigid body. Choked up by emotions that he believed long forgotten. And a tightness in his chest that he knows like an old friend.

He takes a deep breath in a distressed attempt to tame the wild horse that is his heart. Inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth. Unclenches his fists. Rubs his jaw to ease the tension in his muscles. Checks his pulse with shaky fingers. Places a hand over his stomach. Counts to ten. Breathes in again. Breathes out. Blinks. Once, twice. Stretches his stiff limbs. Lifts his head up from the pillow and checks his surroundings. Until his brain finally registers that he’s in his room.

Your room.

Your house.

Somewhere far away.

Somewhere safe.

Hidden from the outside world.

Blindly, he desperately reaches for the other side of the bed where he knows he’ll find his refuge. Where he knows he’ll find you. The only person able to calm the storms that oftentimes rage inside his head. His roughed hand lands on the cold mattress instead of on your warm, soft skin. Confused, he turns around right away to make sure that his senses are not deceiving him, just to realize that you’re truly not there.

That you’re gone.