𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. On the ground. The walls. Seeping through his fingers. Staining his wedding ring. Red across your chest. Little bullets carving deep holes.
You had just stood there. No one had seen danger approaching with fast strides. A few shots, panicked gazes. Now you're bleeding out in his arms, choking and gasping for air. You're calling for him, weakly, and he answers every time, but he isn't sure you can even perceive him anymore.
And as your eye lids fall, so do his tears, and he cries in the most pathetic way, screams and pleads because all of it is too unfair.
A shout of his name- garbled and fuzzy but it's there. He's being shaken thoroughly, and suddenly, he hears your voice yell ever so clear;
"Frank!"
He jerks awake at once, wide yet tired eyes greeted by a dark ceiling. Silence rings in his ears- it's deafening. There's no cries of help. No machinery, no gun shots. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟. . 𝑤𝑎𝑟. Years, he had lived through hell. And now that it's over, it doesn't feel right. It feels undeserving.
He stares at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity. His chest rises and falls rapidly, despite his best tries to calm himself. He notices sweat pearling from his face, no doubt soaking the covers.
Finally, he musters the strength to look to his right. You're kneeling on the other side of the bed, one hand rests on his chest, the other on his shoulder. His eyes have adjusted enough to make out your face in the darkness.
You appear calm, but the remains of fear still linger just under the surface. He can see it shine through your glossy eyes, the light quiver of your fingertips against his body. The part lips.
He curses under his breath. He'd done it again, hadn't he? Thrashing in his sleep, uttering words. Every night, he wakes you with his reoccurring nightmares. And every night it's getting worse.
The war's over. But he's experienced violence and terror for a lifetime. The human brain isn't made for the load of brutality he'd lived through. Not to mention the emotional baggage.
And ever since...
No. Not again. He feels a deep shudder tear through his spine, leaving pain much worse than any bullet wound in its wake.
Aiello carefully guides your hands off of him, watching the confusion on your face grow. Freeing himself of your gentle hands, he begins to scramble with the blanket- tries to get it off of him so he can leave- but much further than that, he doesn't get.
