Click, the counter arm flipped over - 2:15 am. The night air was soft, warm and fragrant from the flowering bushes outside the window. Stirred only by an occasional breeze and the muted cries of the nocturnal wildlife, the night air spilled into the room. The curtains at the open window fluttered when caught by the wind, the only movement in the darkened room. The figure on the bed did not move, except for the eyes which would flicker from the ceiling to the window curtains and then back to the red digital numbers on the alarm clock across the room. Click, the counter arm flipped over - 2:30 am. There was a slight huff of exasperation from the occupant of the bed. Still no sleep and it appears not the slightest chance of it tonight. Once again, his weary brain told him. Every night was the same now. After working ten, sometimes sixteen hours a shift, his body and brain exhausted, he would fall into bed, and immediately drop into a deep sleep. The problem was the sleep only last for about three hours before the nightmares would start. Never the same dream, but always the same person. And the blood, and the screams that had him jerking awake, his body covered in sweat, his own screams hovering in the night air. Which was worse, no sleep - or the nightmares that haunted him. Inhale - slow, deep breath. Hold it for a count of ten; relax the body, breath out slow. NOTHING... Just a bone-deep exhaustion... "I need sleep, I know this. I know this because I am talking to myself." Eyes slid to the alarm clock again. Click, the counter arm flipped over - 2:45 am. "That's it!" With a quick motion, his feet were over the side of the bed. Pulling his shirt over his head and balling it up, he tossed it with a curse into the corner as he headed for the bathroom.
Turning on the shower spray, he kicked out of his sweats, gritted his teeth and stepped into the cold water. He forced himself to turn slowly, taking the brunt of the spray on his back, and then rotated several times until he was completely soaked. Teeth chattering, he turned the water over to hot and stood there until the chattering stopped. He stepped out, grabbing a towel and began to dry off. The motion of his reflection in the bathroom mirror caught his attention, but he refused to turn. Instead, he tilted his head downward as he continued his task. As he finished, he paused, towel in hand. It was a ritual for him, since rejoining the colony. Facing himself in the mirror, trying to dig inside himself, to find what was so broken, or corrupt, that would cause him to... Knowing what he had to do to get through the day, he took a deep breath to steady himself, set his jaw and raised his head.
"Well crap!" The bathroom mirror was fogged over. Shaking his head in disgust, he wiped the condensation from the mirror with his towel. Dark eyes stared back at him, haunted and exhausted. Black hair clipped military short, tanned skin with a decided gray pallor from lack of sleep. Almost of its own accord, his right hand stretched out to the mirror, to his reflection. The trembling hand in the mirror caught his attention, he stopped and looked down, surprised, almost fascinated by the trembling. Taking a shaky breath, he closed his hand into a fist, and released the breath he had unknowingly been holding. " I have got to get a grip" he muttered. His mind ran over his schedule for the day, today was his off day, down time. No one needed him to fill in, no one needed a day off. Commander Taylor had already addressed the issue of his work schedule, or rather the over work, and actually ordered him to have time scheduled off. Twenty four hours of emptiness ahead to fill. Physical limbo, as his mind was already starting down the dark road, Foster's face flashing through his memories, smiling and laughing at a prank they had pulled on Dunham, grimacing in disgust when on latrine cleanup detail after Lt Washington caught them plotting their next prank, and the concentration and alertness when they were on patrol. Those were before... Before the gambling, and the "woman" Foster became involved with, and the money. Curran swayed slightly and grabbed the side of the sink, head hanging as self loathing rose up in a sudden swell. And don't forget, some evil little voice whispered ….The surprise on Foster's face, when Curran had offered to swap shifts with Foster, after only the day before refusing. After another argument about the money that was owed, and Foster's threats to go to Commander Taylor. About the money, and the gambling. Now, in hindsight, Curran couldn't understand why he just didn't tell Foster to go ahead. He was just as deep into it as Curran and the other soldiers. A six week, or even longer trip OTG to some far off outpost would be most welcome now. He raised his head, staring at his reflection again. Foster's laughing voice surfaced once again, back before their troubles started.
" Damn Timmy boy, why do you keep making the same mistake with the women?" Curran was still rubbing the side of his face, red and stinging from the slap that the pissed off red-headed female just delivered. Foster was chuckling and shaking his head. Despite just getting the bejesus slapped out of him, Curran was watching the fiery red-head stomp away through the bar, a look of appreciation on his face at the curvy backside. Curran drug his eyes back to Foster, puzzled. "What do you mean, problem? I just had one of the best weeks of my life with , uh with Brenda." Foster, lifted his glass with a chuckle, "Tim, her name is Belinda. Brenda was the one with the short black hair, 3 weeks ago." Curran grinned, "Hey good times all around." Foster looked at him with a suddenly somber look. "And the next one is? Tim, my man, you are seriously in denial. And running out of females to play with. We aren't exactly flowing with a lot of choices, and you can't even get some of your ladies to walk pass you, much less talk to you, afterwards." Foster took another drink from his glass, as Curran just stared at him open-mouthed. "Foster, man, are you okay?" Curran lifted his shoulders in a shrug, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Foster looked at him over his glass, and Curran could see he wanted to say more. Foster set the glass down, cupping his hands around it, as he pondered whether to say anything else. Curran waited, suddenly somber and sober. Foster nodded, "You're right, If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Then he hesitated. Curran, sighed, "There's But... right?" Foster grinned at his friend, " But if it is broke, you have to fix the broke from inside." Curran stared at him, confused. "What the hell does that suppose to mean?" Foster shrugged, and chuckled, "Just something my grandpa used to say. I never understood it either at the time." "You mean you do now?," Curran asked. Foster smiled, as he emptied his glass. Setting it down he motioned to the waiter for refills. "Yes, thanks to you, Buddy, I do now." Curran burst into laughter. As the memory faded, determination settled on his face. "I understand now Foster, my friend. "
Click, the counter arm flipped over - 3:00 am. Coming out of the bathroom, short black hair wet, he pulled on running shorts, t shirt and shoes, ensuring his ID tags where around his neck. He headed out the door, going for a run, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Physical exercise, hopefully physical exhaustion this way. Maybe he could catch some sleep later. At the door, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the clock. Click, the counter arm flipped over - 3:02 am. He stopped, glaring at the alarm clock, as if it was the sole cause of his sleeplessness. A small glint of mischievousness appeared in his eyes, the first real emotion he had felt in, well since he couldn't remember. He yanked the cord from the wall, rolled it around the clock, and without looking, tossed it over his shoulder, where it hit the rim of the trash basket, and toppled in with a satisfying thump. As Curran shut the door behind him, and took off at a slow trot, the smile took over. Click that, he smirked.