The Corporal.

The Corporal opened his eyes, the sun was shining. Far too brightly if you were to ask him.

The orb's blasted rays' only intent were to awake him prematurally from his slumber. Of that, he was convinced.

Perhaps he owned them gratitude. Although bothersome, those insistent lights were the only things capable of guiding the corporal away from his dreams.

Dreams? He would laugh at the pitiful excuse his subconscience would conjure up every night without fail.

Dreams were supposed to be hazy, preposterous rambles of a worn mind.

Supposed to induce chuckles at the senseless and seemingly meaningless images.

They were supposed to be light hearted, distant, ridiculous.

Not the sharp, deafening roars of thunder by his ears as he sprints clumsily across an unknown and decomposing wasteland. So abused and forgotten was the ground beneath him.

The horizon is blank. Neither black nor white. Simply, nothing.

The sun had left. The moon had abandoned. Where the stars ever even there? Had they even existed in this isolated and souless slate? Had they followed the clouds' example? Had they chosen to stay so very far away?

Why waste their beauty and light nature on such a decrepit land?

He would lose himself here.

Although the morning would bring surpressed and unshed tears along with countless unanswered questions, the Corporal does not wish to investigate this dead field.

His feet stumble upon the rocky surface, tripping over his own toes and holes stomped in by those before him.

The thunder grows louder, although now it seems clearer?

Rather than one, continued mass of unrecognisable noise, it's singular.

Singular screams from singular people as they all blend together in a fearful and confused mess.

He does not join in on their shrills, he does not add another voice to the endless crys.

He simply runs.

He can't reach the end.

Every step he takes feels like a thousand behind. 

He can't reach the end.

Reaching his hand out, desperately attempting to clutch at the scenery. To rip away the nothingness, to shred the blank stare of the horizon to pieces and watch them scatter to the ground. Falling to his feet like broken glass falling from a cracking mirror.

He can't reach the end.

He can't reach the end.

Please.

Please God.

Let me reach the end.

Tear me from this wretched nightmare.

Bring me back, take me back please.

 I am no solider.

No one is a soldier.

We are humans, not pawns.

Not weapons.

Not bait.

Please.

Please my sunshine.

Please wake me up.

And he does.

Every morning.

Every morning, he blocks his view of the dusty window, shaking him gently.

He grips the Corporal's shoulders with sculptor's hands and tosses him side to side.

Calling his name is a hushed tone, he pecks light kisses up a tanned neck and behind a scarred ear. Or a nub.

Alluring the Corporal to reality, pulling him from his so called dreams.

He awakes with a start.

He guides the man into his arms, holding him. His light breaths of conversation are far too energetic for the time he's woken him at.

Careless nature and shrugs are sent the Corporal's way in response.

He's far too bright. Yet that is what makes him perfect.

That is what makes him the Corporal's ray of sunshine.