John, armed and dangerous, in the heat of the battle, death all around him, ghosts
Ululating, screeching, clawing at his heart with their tendril-like fingers, cold, icy
Listlessly, he woke up to see the dead in front of him, in his rooms, his fallen comrades
Iotas, eons in despair, reliving the ghastly torment of lost limbs, the terror, the task
Each one of the soldiers had to face, their duty, for King and Country.
Trembling, sobbing, a façade of a man, insides out in the open, in more ways than one.
Watson sat up in their bed, reaching, his sobs coming out in desperate coughs, his want to help
Hopeless. Nothing to be done. Eerie figments of imagination, of memories cold as steel, like his mind
Only comforted by the long limb wrapping around his waist, gently, unrushed…protecting. Salvation.