This one came to me in the middle of the night and seemed to want to be written. Rated T for disturbing content.
She was dreaming. She was quite clear about that, even in the midst of it. She was hovering up near the ceiling of a room, looking down on a bed, and the man occupying it. Night time, seedy hotel room. The man, clad in a black tee shirt and nondescript khaki pants, was lying on his back staring up at the ceiling and drinking clear fluid straight from a bottle. John. Younger, slimmer, less gray at his temples.
Something peculiar. Her vision seemed to be doubled, somehow. It was as though she could see inside him in some strange way, and she suddenly noticed he was shot through with colours. Red for pain and purple for grief, concentrated in two roiling masses, one in his chest and one in his head. Tendrils of colour flickered out, travelling down arms and legs, into his belly, like the fire in a plasma ball...
He took another swallow from his bottle. The colours dulled momentarily, and the roiling slowed, but the effect was only temporary.
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, running down the sides of his head to drip off his earlobes. Another swig from the bottle, hardly any effect on the colours this time. He propped himself up on one elbow and placed the bottle, almost empty, on the table beside the bed. There was a gun on the table, she noticed. A big pistol with a long barrel and a huge silencer. He picked it up. She began to feel worried. His expression was serious, thoughtful as he checked whether it was loaded: a single bullet remaining from the day's work.
"Stop. No, no-" But he couldn't hear her. You're dreaming, remember? You're not really here...
The intent look did not falter as he ran his hands over the weapon, almost lovingly. He lifted it to his face, touched it to his forehead, his cheeks, his lips... he opened his mouth...
She was half frantic now. Suddenly she was next to him, one hand on his chest in the midst of that conflagration. Blue and white and gold flowed out from her hand. "Hold on! Stay with me!" Desperately she kissed his forehead. Blue and white and gold spread out, washed though him. The purple and red gave way reluctantly, and faded to lavender and dull crimson.
His hand relaxed, and the gun dropped away. He lay there, still gazing at the ceiling and then rolled over on his side. Opened his weapon and withdrew the bullet. She was fading now, the room becoming shadowed and dark. As it faded away, she saw him lie back on the bed, the bullet grasped in his hand.
She woke, bathed in sweat, heart hammering. She felt sick, and lay there swallowing repeatedly until she had control of her stomach. She rolled over on her side and waited as her heart slowed. Next to her John shifted in his sleep and then was still again. It was a long time before she dropped back to sleep – a sleep without dreams this time.
Xxxxx
The morning newspaper was spread out over the bed. It wasn't often they had the privilege of a Sunday morning lie-in, but today was an exception. They tussled as usual over the different sections: World, National, Business, Lifestyle... but there was plenty of time this morning. Joss almost forgot her strange dream.
Enhanced Interrogation Techniques were big in the news. She looked over the headlines with distaste. John followed her gaze, his lips tightening at the highlighted quote from the senate report and an accompanying photo. He shook his head slowly. "It wasn't like it even worked," he said very softly, almost to himself.
She took his hand and squeezed.
"Let me tell you a story," he said, looking past her to the window. "We got sent, Kara and me, to a house in a town in Armenia. There was a terror cell working out of it, a big stash of explosives and bomb-making equipment. We were to eliminate everyone in the house and neutralize the explosives. Straightforward, right?"
I'm not sure I like this, she thought. He was pale and sweating slightly. "You don't have to tell me, John," she said gently.
He shook his head. "Yes I do. Maybe it'll help. Anyway, we went in and we killed twelve people. Thirteen, really, because the lady of the house was about eight months pregnant. Kara shot her in the face, and then in the belly. And she shot the four-year-old daughter too, standing by her mother's body screaming. And I went into the next room and got the last of them, a teenage boy. He looked at me as I came in the room, and he smiled. I was the Angel of Death to that boy, and he met me with a smile on his face and forgiveness in his eyes. A double tap to the chest and another in the head, just like I was trained." He looked as though he was about to vomit. "The irony was that the intel was wrong. Obtained through torture. No terror cell, no explosives." He breathed carefully through his nose, obviously fending off the nausea.
"I got blind drunk that night. Nearly used the last bullet on myself, and to this day I don't know what stopped me." Absently he rubbed his forehead, then glanced up at her, forcing a smile. "That's the bullet I saved and wrote my name on. The one you've still got around here somewhere."
She had no words, and so she just put her arms around him. They sat like that for a long time.
"Did it help? Telling me?" she asked at last.
He gave a small shrug. "Maybe. A little."
"I still love you, you know."
"I know, Joss. And that really does help."
She sat next to him, holding him. Embracing his darkness and willing blue and white and gold into him.
Thanks for reading. Please review if you liked it.