I would love to be able to explain this to you. I really would. This is mainly to cure some insane writers block, and because I've been listening to David Bowie a little too much.
I own none of this.
It was inside him, burrowing deep beneath his skin and laying its eggs. A vermin; cockroaches, he thought, that was left alone for far too long until it ran rampant in his body. It was evident in his eyes, his hair, his voice. His movements reeked of the distant land and the smoke, the screams, the marches and the explosions.
The hushed voices, the hypodermic needles filled with liquid, all caught the light, blinded him. All of that, and it continued to fester until he curled upon himself screaming for everything to stop, wielding the very thing that was causing so much pain until it became welded to his skin; the pale peach becoming an ugly green.
Heart monitors became helicopters, their steady whup whup whup filling his heart with dread and the hands kneaded his stomach into complicated knots that even the most skilled of hands (those of the nurse… he liked the one with the almond-shaped brown eyes best; just like Prudence) could not untie.
Sometimes he would wake up wondering where he was, catching a glimpse of the sky and searching for some kind of sign of life amongst the dead in his ward. Mentally dead, physically dead… he clutched at his sheets and pulled them toward his chin while big, blue eyes watched the progression of airplanes. Childlike wonder. Reverting back to basics.
"He'll be okay, won't he?"
"Physically, he'll heal. Mentally…"
"Oh."
"Get down, Carrigan!"
"FUCKIN' NAMI…"
Chattering, the sound speeding up and slowing down as he lay there with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Childhood memories leaked through the cracks, slipped down his cheeks at night and escaped his mouth as he took deep, steady breaths. The Prudence Nurse (he never bothered to learn her name)'s hand on his back, rubbing small circles. Strange touches, the sting of a needle sliding into his muscle when he panicked.
"You can go now, Mr. Carrigan."
Hands on his arms. He stood up slowly; head spinning, wanting to scratch at his skin until all the infected parts of him fell off. Until he was clean. Until Vietnam left his bloodstream, unblocked his eyes and unstuck his lips.
"Max, you remember this, don't you?"
Bed. It smelled of sex. Wrinkled nose, a step back, explosions…
"Max?"
Get down. Get down. Die, fuckin' Namis.
"Oh my god. Max?!"
Needles. Needles. Get down…
"Sadie! I-I don't…"
Sex. Needles. Nurses.
"Don't touch him."
Floating. Floating.
"Oh my god."
Jude?
"Max?"
Jude.
"Max?"
Everything below the neck works fine.