Fever Dreams

The last shot fired, and the battlefield fell silent.

Sullen smoke clung to the dark ground as the final fires burnt out.

I stared into the empty eyes of my dead comrades, lost in a nightmare dream.

I stood. The pain in my leg sheered into my fragile brain, but I fought it, and stood nonetheless.

Gasping from the fetid smell of death, I hunted movement with my eyes.

Had we won? Had we beaten back the incursion? Did it matter?

I let the pain in, began to fall, let myself fall.

He woke with a start, dripping with sweat, sticky on the sheets. Panting with the effort, he forces himself to rise, throws himself into the shower.

Under the scalding water, he feels reborn, if only for a moment. Stepping out, the weight of the world falls across his shoulders once more, the weight of the dream penning his mind in on all sides. Never a free moment, never a silent second.

Pulling on his discarded clothes, he watches the rain pound again the dirty glass blankly. The first cigarette of the day is accompanied by the ritual coughing and spluttering. A cup of coffee is procured, and he begins to plan the day ahead.

I remember the day the skies caught fire.

I remember the day the curtain of death fell across this land.

I remember the infant screams, the wretched calling for the damned.

I remember the first days of this god-awful war, when we found out who we really were.

I remember seeing the dead, and wishing to be among their number.

I remember the eyes, dead but for the rage, the pain.

I remember, I remember, I remember.

Gasping, he looks up from the table, spilt coffee dripping down. How long that time? Desperate, he searches for a clock, a watch. How much did he lose? His watch lies smashed, its time long told.

Shaking all over, he stands up. He finds the energy to walk, stepping slowly to the door. He thinks of the fresh air, the cool air, its soothing effects, and redoubles his efforts. Images flashing across his shattered mind, he reaches for the doorknob, his escape.

Almost falling through the wooden portal, he stumbles into the rain, onto the road. The falling water hides the sound of his heavy breathing. It fails to mask the sound of his body crumpling onto the concrete, his legs giving way, a sickening crunch as his knees impact.

I fight to stand again, to take a final glance.

The breaths scream down my scarred throat as I pull myself up.

Delusional for a moment, I imagine the smell of smokes and coffee, and I smile.

As I stare over the top of my grim foxhole, the smile burns away. I see the space where humanity used to be.

I begin my trek to anywhere, over the empty horizon were once a city stood.

I search for company, but only death and the dead are here.

I remember a dream of waking up.

~ by grimbojones on November 19, 2008.