katarhol

Midwestern thunderstorms are beautiful, a brilliant sight to behold in the waking world.

When one is trying to sleep, however, they can bring forth the worst of memories.

Lightning crashes, and his old partner dies.

"KRAGGER! KRAGGER!"

The thunder that rolls afterwards sounds like a hail of grenades.

"It's a flashzone. Kill everything that moves."

The hard rain against the windows is like heavy gunfire.

He's a crack shot, but somehow his aim still wavers. Every non-lethal attempt seems to detonate a Downsider's head.

Poor, desperate fools.

Kill or be killed.

Kill or be killed.

"Here, lip this. It'll take the edge off."

KRAKKK!

THOOOMM!

GET DOWN! GET DOWN!

He's DEAD, LEAVE HIM!

But he's still breathing and we -

LEAVE HIM! COVER YOUR FLANK! KEEP YOURSELF ALIVE!

HOLD YOUR GROUND! DON'T LET THE MEAT GET A FOOTHOLD!

KRAAKKK! KRAKKK-AKK-AKK!

KA-THOOOOMMM!



...


He wakes as he always does. Clinging to the pillow, breathing heavily in a cold sweat.

Someday, maybe he'll sleep a whole night through.

There's only one voice in my head now. It's my OWN.

It's like an old friend I haven't heard from in years.

I don't know him anymore.