A/N: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, nor will I ever. This idea came to me while doing some school work and I couldn't help myself. The rating is for themes of violence and some language, though not a lot. This is a slightly different approach than I've ever taken to a story, so I hope everyone enjoys!
"But, in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world" – Tim O'Brien
He never liked the smell or look of a hospital. It seemed so foreign, so fake. Everything was sterilized, washed down, and presented the way everyone wanted it to be, nice and white and clean. But, from beneath the bandages, it wasn't that way at all. He could feel his heart beating heavy in his chest, nothing was ever as nice, and white and clean as all this.
Before he left, years ago, he had delusions that there was a beauty to the world, like the crisp white walls that surrounded him. There was a movement in his hometown, still a rather small community on the outskirts of the city, to protest what was going on. New England liberal ideals gained prominence, but Erik never felt attached to politics. He was more interested in his goal, studying piano to be a teacher, impart music onto the place he loved so much.
But, that unholy little card told him otherwise and, ready to serve his country under the anti-Red banner of the time, Erik was unable to comprehend how he was selected. He had no inclination for war, and as far as he was aware, seemed too old to serve. His father, a veteran, had always pressured him to serve, but a student like Erik had very little interest in fighting: conflict was not Erik's passion, sitting on the bench of a piano was. He had been so afraid of hurting his hands…
There were times, he could recall, wishing desperately to flee, and finding himself entirely unable to do so. So many times he edged towards the car, wild intentions to get the hell out and start up a music school in Canada. But, it just never happened, and the young man, torn between fear and humiliation, took the former.
The first day of training brought a great fear into his heart. Standing amongst the other men, he was older, skimming the later age group that had been drafted. They must have really been desperate, he remembered thinking. At twenty-five he was a regular geriatric next to some of the ripe seventeen year olds that stood shaking next to him. But, he had been in school, studying, and that deterred government action. As soon as he wasn't a full time student anymore, he became property of the US of A.
Because of his age and the fact that he could shoot a magazine without flinching too much, Erik was quickly set up in a leadership position. He didn't ask for it, but when he wrote his dad, he had been proud. He gripped his gun with all his might, sometimes his knuckles started to hurt, but it was better than running. Better than being a coward, he would think. He got shipped off with some good men, young men (boys really), and as soon as the choppers landed in Vietnam, the heavy air added an extra weight to the already heavy sacks they carried.
Much of the time was still fuzzy, pictures stood out in his mind, but it was largely shuffled towards the back alley ways of his mind. He stayed in a haze, occasionally the spare memory would float to the surface, terrorize him, and then quickly skirt back, leaving him sweating and panting in the present, in the bed, out of the jungle.
Having just arrived in Japan, he was still having trouble adjusting. The bandages itched, he could feel the phantom limb, and still, he could feel his fingers twitching and his elbow moving even though it wasn't there. Lieutenant Erik Goldwyn shifted in the white bed, the white bandages covering most of the upper half of his body, he didn't feel comfortable covered in white. He was dirty, the world was dirty. Nothing was white anymore.
The nurses didn't even look right in white. They were Japanese, most of them anyway, mulling around with their pin-straight black hair tied back as the smiled at the GIs, knowing barely any English. American doctors were more common, some Japanese around to communicate as best they could, and then there were the American nurses, so different than their Japanese counterparts. They didn't just smile and walk by. They stopped, talked, made it a little more bearable for those that wished to take advantage of their company.
Erik didn't feel like talking. He turned away from anyone who approached him. Answered with rough grunts and constantly evaded the gaze of the hapless passerby. Any nurse that tried to gain his friendship was quickly informed to the reason he was so solitary, a biting remark usually searing her to the point of tears would just send her simpering self away. The only time he ever spoke, outside of turning people away, was to demand that the shades be closed or the window be opened, it seemed that whenever he wished for light, it was dark, and whenever the light was on, suddenly, he wished to bathe in darkness again.
He still had dreams about it, about everything. He could feel the weight on his back, the muck up to his damn thighs, the rain soaking through the already heavy uniform. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he woke up and his throat was raw. A nurse would be standing over him with a syringe pressed into the IV tube. He had been screaming. It had only been a week and he could feel himself going crazy in this place.
Before this, before the mess, before this sad excuse for a war, he had been a promising talent. Amidst the dreams of the field, there were dreams of those ivories. The keys twinkling below his fingers, sometimes, when he lay in silence, he could hear the music, and feel his fingers moving, even the ones that weren't there. It caused his stomach to flip-flop, disgusted. He wondered how this happened, why it happened, and if it really did happen. It felt like a dream sometimes, a terrible dream that wouldn't end.
And he woke up every morning, Lieutenant Goldwyn woke up amongst every rank of man, wondering about his old platoon, questioning the safety of his men, his own condition, and why he had not been a better leader, or one sound enough to realize what he had been getting into. It always hurt worse in the morning too, everything hurt in the morning. More often than not, he was awake to the sense that he didn't even want to open his eyes. What did he really have?
These thoughts made him squirm in his bed, twist with discomfort, and generally be disagreeable to everyone who crossed his path. And so it went. As neighbors with less lasting injuries left, returned to battle, he stayed, persevering through the distaste for existence. It was exceedingly difficult to have a body that was far stronger than the mind. It became even more difficult to sleep.
One evening, aided by the sweep of drugs over his system, Lieutenant Goldwyn fell asleep without much difficulty. He drifted into a dream world, the beautiful land where those he forgot or left behind were at the forefront. It started off peacefully enough, at home. He could smell the fields of freshly tilled dirt, the summer was just starting. The small town was buzzing with life, Memorial Day flags and banners hanging. He was in his uniform, decorated and proud.
He stood tall, every inhabitant of home celebrating his return. They clapped, squealed, and cheered for him. His chest filled with pride as he rode down the main street, faces blurring together, as the individual didn't matter. But, almost as suddenly as the cheering came, the bliss turned into an overwhelming, indescribable feeling. It took a moment to process before the joy of the dream turned to dismal hopelessness.
The cheers morphed into a chorus of sobs and moans. Faces that were distinct to his home changed to the foreign faces of the Vietnamese. Sad women, terrified children, and angry men glared at him, they moved in, closer and closer as the sky blackened. Clouds rolled in and thunder clapped about his head, the heavy rains began and the buildings started to disappear. Erik's heart thudded in his chest. Crumbling buildings morphed into the tall trees, fire rose higher than the trees. He gripped a gun again, the metal cold under his shaking hands.
Erik was surrounded. The mass of Vietnamese moved in on him and he could feel himself drowning, the dark sky illuminated with streaks of violent lightening while the clouds rumbled, mixed with those moans. Those terrible sounds made his stomach turn and he gritted his teeth, it all echoed in his brain. Suddenly, his eyes opened, a bright wash of light came over him and he let out a terrible scream, his finger pulling the trigger on the automatic weapon – that noise!
It all faded… Sound died and the images collapsed upon themselves, it was only Erik left now. The Lieutenant was suspended in nothingness for a moment before he slowly opened his eyes, realizing it was only a nightmare.
He could feel the cold sweat on his body and he shifted, feeling a searing pain in his arm, those phantom fingers twitched. His throat was raw, and he knew he had been screaming. Undoubtedly, someone had heard, and he sighed a moment regaining himself before he bothered to open his eyes again. Then, as he gained his vision back, there she was.