They had told him he was perfectly fine; he was returning home of full body and of complete mind. That in a few months the experience that engulfed everything about him and shaped him in ways he never thought possible when he received his orders would dissipate and he'd be the old Hawkeye again. Open a small practice much like his father had, scrapped knees, and not bullet holes. Despite what he was told and despite what he told himself he knew it was a lie. He wasn't fine. He would never be fine. It wasn't just in dreams he saw their faces, saw the horrors one man could inflict onto another, but in random faces passing on the street or even of his friends. He tried to rid them, to convince himself they are nothing more then delusions and maybe his healing from the war would take longer then normal; after thirty years they were his permanent cross to bear.