He had been discharged weeks ago, and remained in his apartment since. He barely ate, rarely spoke, and became reclusive in his ways.
The family that he left looked at him differently - with fear, for knowing the actions of many soldiers in Vietnam; and with pity, for his new, more helpless state.
He didn't mind that he was starving, or that his friends were worried sick. But his terrors in the night shook him to his core.
Children running in nightmare heat, parents wailing, and the air alive with cracking electricity and bullet streams. Corpses with their eyes wide and staring, now blank and dull.
They plagued him, and so he never slept: and when, on occasion, it did claim him, it was fitful and restless.
Only the empty shell of a man returned - his soul was still trapped out there, half way across the world.
The hospital had counselled him about his lost limb, and what they had said was true: he still felt as if he could feel his hand; like it was still there, and he found it eerie. Yet still, he had begun to grow accustomed to it.
His dreams were more like memories, scorched into his mind. Scenes played out exactly as he remembered them, except for one thing.
It had been there since the very first dream, but far off in the distance - at the corner of his eye. In every dream it was there, bathed and wrapped in pitch shadows, and coming closer with every sleep, every blink, every moment that his eyes were shut; no matter how brief.
It didn't seem quite human, and had a hunched and bulging form, but was always hidden from view by tangles of shadows and shade.
He caught a glimpse of it once, as a thin ray of light fell on its sickly skin through the leaves overhead. It was pale and warped, and its skin was stretched and sickened so as to be almost translucent.
He didn't know what it was, and it terrified him in the way it came ever closer in its slow, steady, certain way - every dream nearer. And last night, he had felt it's hot, rotting breath on the back of his neck, and its deadened eyes snap onto him.
The next time he slept, it would be upon him, and there would be no escape.
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To Atone Will Be The Death Of Me
Paranormal(Creature Feature wattpad competition entry) James fought in Vietnam, discharged after being retrieved from his time held as a PoW in the Vietcong base. Returning home; now a lonely amputee scarred both physically and mentally by the war; he starts...
