"J'avais rêvé d'une autre vie..." [I dreamed of another life...]
-Fantine, Les Misérables
He dreams of fire almost every night, flames leaping across pale skin, reflecting in blank eyes, and a maddened empty laugh. Other nights, the dreams are more pleasant- a princess in the rain, leaning in, drops sparkling on her lips- a man (a friend) laughing underwater- a park in Manhattan, no city for miles-
Some nights he wakes screaming, the smoke of the bullets acrid in his throat, blood spreading across- someone's- chest, blood all over leather armor, the sword parting- mist, smoke, nothing more.
Courtney draws him back down into her arms, murmuring comforts in a voice that sounds wrong, somehow, because isn't it supposed to be deeper, shouldn't her hands be rougher, her hair in one thick braid? He misses tough muscle under his hands, and isn't that stupid, because Courtney's skin has always been like silk.
Only in dreams does he know the names of his ghosts, always forgotten when he wakes. Sometimes he's sitting with Courtney, on a park bench, in a restaurant, across the breakfast table, and she'll look at him, love pouring form her eyes, and he'll think- is this all?
He needs the smooth wood of a staff in his hands, the mad, reckless tension of war rushing through him. He has never thought himself a violent man, but his body betrays him sometimes, and Courtney doesn't know where he learned to fight like he does when a mugger attacks them in an alley. He doesn't know either, but he knows warm brown hands adjusting his stance and hard blows in the dark.
Mark and Courtney don't know, don't remember, and in desperation he reads about reincarnation, but all the stories agree that you lose your memories between lives, so that's no good.
The first time he swims he forgets to hold his breath, tries to breath the water, as though he has a diving helmet, a clear globe, and the laughing man holding it out to him is named-
The first time he plays flag football he tries to knock the flags off, but they're not cones, not solid, and he has no staff.
A flash of black wings past the window has him frozen in irrational fear, and Courtney's hand is on his arm, calming, what's wrong, it's just a crow.
The panther at the zoo startles him too; he sees blood on the glistening fur, dead eyes, and doesn't visit again, resisting the urge to set the cat free.
The first time he kisses Courtney outside, it's raining, and her lips are wet, but there are no dancers around them, no screams of joy, and it's all wrong.
On their wedding day he blinks hard as she comes up the aisle, trying to lose the image superimposed over her smile, a dark warrior in a red dress.
They are happy, he thinks- Courtney doesn't know, except for the nightmares- but there are empty places still, no one with him, fighting- and Courtney isn't someone else, and never can be.