Who: James Warner (Narrative) What: Flashback When: February 23 - midday Where: His and Nilus’ home Rating: HIGH - NSFW (PTSD, mentions of blood) Status: Complete
James sat heavily on the lip of the tub.
Around his feet was a scatter of sharp porcelain, bottles of things, nicknacks that had fallen from the sink when he’d ripped it from its place on the wall, shards of glass from what once was the bathroom mirror.
The bare toes of one foot curled against the cold tile. James had taken off his left sock and wound it around his bleeding right hand to try to get the gush of essence to cease. He might need stitches. He wasn’t sure.
Down the hallway leading from the bathroom there were various things upturned, holes in the drywall. The living room was just as much in disarray as the bathroom: lamps had been broken, furniture upturned, James had smashed the television.
It had started with what had sounded to him like a gunshot. He’d been dozing on the couch in the living room, toeing the line between deep sleep and waking when he’d heard the sound. It’d triggered those memories, those explosions. He could smell the ash, the Earth, hear the screams of the dying soldiers in his unit. Taste the blood.
icoudlvehurthim icoudlvekilledhim
James’ blue eyes squeezed shut. He was panicked, his heart raced and his body ached from all of the damage. He’d come back to his senses in the bathroom and left only a mess in his wake. He would clean it up in a moment, beg for forgiveness, and be grateful that Nilus hadn't been home. Thankful he didn’t have a gun.
Wiping at his eyes with his uninjured hand James opened his eyes and felt overwhelmed at the task before him.
Finally he stood, knelt, and began to pick up the pieces of his life one shard at a time.