of gunfire and bullet wounds
He hates going outside now.
It's the first thing we asked him when he got home: "Wanna go outside and play some football?" That should've been the end of it. He should've said yes, got to his feet, and followed us into the daylight, just before dusk. He should've grinned that same, lighthearted and cheeky grin he always did when we mentioned anything outdoors.
Instead, we all stood there and watched him get so overwhelmed, so panicked, that we immediately regretted it. We watched a shadow of fear, of aggression, of memories cloud his dark brown gaze, and allowed those emotions to twist him so violently, so ravishingly, that all he could do was scream and cry and lash out.
I remember what he looked like when he came home. Hollowed face, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes; everything that was described as a prisoner of war had been put on him. I had hoped it was a mask—that once he came home to his friends, his family, the house he grew up in, I thought everything would stop. I thought the memories, the pain, the darkness would stop.
For months, he had nightmares. Ones that would seem to completely transform him from my middle brother, my own flesh and blood, to a stranger sleeping beside my youngest each night. Ones that seemed to stay with him, no matter how much he cried and pounded his head against any sort of object in the room to stop them from taking him over. Ones that would send him falling, reeling, into a pit of flashbacks that never seemed to end.
I see the lashes on his back each night before he goes to sleep. The zig-zagged patterns, crossing and cutting into one another like butter would a knife, make my stomach curl in on itself. I see the way he looks at them; a sense of pride always burns fully behind the flashbacks that rage war inside of his head. Sometimes, I think he still sees himself there; still in that shitty camp, still under the cold and wet amongst warm bodies, still amongst the dead and the living and unable to tell who was which.
He sits in silence for a few moments. Then, with the pain concealed behind a grin and a laugh, he asks, "No pain, no gain, right Dar?"
I grimace at the tone in his voice. So soft, so subtle, so kind despite the anger he has for everything on this Earth. So like himself, despite the complete opposite that has seemed to take him over. Without waiting for me to reply, he turns back to the mirror, and the memories come back into his eyes like a light switch being turned on.
I could get lost in them—lost in the crosses and cuts bruises that dance across his skin like ash—but I force myself to look away. I always do, for I'm afraid he'll catch me staring.