Copious Anatomy.
Preface
Recoil.
It burned, forcing a blinding pain up his arms and into his shoulders. He stumbled, pushed back, caught by two hands and pulled back up to fire again. Reloading with a click and a scream and then the whirring of the barrel and the deafening shot that left his ears ringing like a church bell on Sunday morning.
He prayed to (dead) god that he'd make it out alive.
It wasn't only himself he was worried for. The hands that kept catching him were familiar, were precious, and part of the reason he was the one turning the catch and lightning the spark. Those hands had a baby boy to return to. Another pair of hands, ones that were busy providing cover a few meters away, were going to get married in June, which wasn't in another two months. They had to hold out, the three of them, but if one had to go then he would sure as hell throw himself overboard before the hands could reach out to stop him.
Reverberation.
This hurt the most. The first, bell like wave of ringing in the aftermath of a shot was painful, but the reverb was what grew and grew in the minutes after. Concessive shots added to this, making the echoes too much to bare, and if he'd had a choice he would have run before now, earmuffs or no. He would have held on to those other hands and they'd be long gone, away from bullets and recoil and pain. They'd be home and safe and not have to worry about death and loss until they were old and weary and grey.
They were old and weary now.
Holding hands didn't seem so childish anymore.
Rest.
This was foreign, except for in the times before the barrel clicked back and the handle had to be turned again, when the reverb levels were at their lowest. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept longer than an hour, when he hadn't been called to fight or keep watch or to gather what they had and run. He supposed that after this it would be sleep that he would avoid, hoping for an escape from the memories that would surely haunt his mind.
It felt like he was living a memory at the moment. There wasn't anything he could control.
~.~
Another shot and the horrid burning, and the recoil was stronger than before. He slipped, falling down completely, and the barrel twisted out as he and someone else fell down to a hard, wet surface bellow.
His shoulder shattered and he thought he may have screamed.
Once the louder fire stopped others advanced, eradicating those that his shots had protected, and more screaming reached his ears as one side finally gained the upper hand.
A hand grabbed his and he did run then, through the dark, away from the guns and men left behind. They kept running, too afraid to stop, and when they came across the only safe space for a mile they collapsed and the world went black.
Waking with nothing was the scariest thing he'd ever experienced.
~.~
Four men made it out that day, another two were taken as prisoners of war and never seen again. There were twenty-seven casualties in total.
The screaming still wakes him up at night.
He often joins in.
~.~
Damon Salvatore,
24th squadron,
deploy 4/6
p. no 16
Due to recent events in the field and for your own medical and psychological benefit you have been granted reprieve from any active and inactive military duties, and are to return home in effect of immediately.
Weekly mental and physical health check ups will be organized on your behalf, and you will be housed and payed a weekly salary of $267 US until such time as you are able to support yourself. At this time the salary will decrease by forty percent.
After four - six months we will receive a referral from your doctor(s) which will help us determine whether you are once again fit for active duty. If not, we will give you the option of another four - six month leave period or an honorable discharge.
If another assessment at the end of this second period also comes back negative, you will be honorably discharged.
Best of luck, private.
Sincerely,
P. R. Epcot
US Military,
December 2005
~.~
-click-
Damon? Damon, it's Carter. I didn't see you at the club last night, just wondering it you're okay. Ring me back, mate.
-beep-
~.~
-click-
Damon! I've changed my number, with the new house and all I mean, so ring Sarah's or my mobile for a while until we get the new line put in. We want you over some time, Damon. Little Henry misses you. He's not so little any more, you might not recognize him. Still, give me a call on the mobile, and we'll sort something out.
-beep-
~.~
-click-
Damon, this is Dr Palmer. You've missed your last few appointments here and I'm beginning to get worried about you. I need you to ring either me or the clinic some time this week so we can make sure you're okay. Also, I'm due to see you on Friday. I want to help you, Damon, and frankly my service is mandatory for someone in your position. You need my help. Friday, Damon; don't be late.
-beep-
~.~
Damon huffed as loudly as he could, hoping someone would come and distract him with something incredibly important just so he could avoid the walk ahead of him. His psychiatrist, military appointed, of course, held their meetings on the eighth floor of a clinic with no elevator for what he was sure was the sole purpose of torturing him further. The psychiatrist in question and his doctor at the rehabilitation centre were working together to get him to exercise more, both in favor of the 'mutual benefits' they seemed to see.
All he saw was stairs.
After waiting a few more minutes, still hoping for that distraction, Damon resigned himself to his fate, taking each step one at a time. He gripped the railing tightly with his left hand, glad that he'd had the sense to carry what he owned in a backpack seeing as his right arm was no help at all. It was up in a sling, still aching quietly whenever it was jarred or moved, and he didn't know whether to hate or look forward to the day when the cast could be removed. His leg was worse, almost lame in it's uselessness, leaving him crippled for the foreseeable future. The mechanical frame and implants there helped, but he could help the pain that ripped through him with every step, the unmistakeable click as the frame helped support his knee every time it bent.
His grip tightened as he hauled his injured leg up to the next step.
No one came to help him on his way up, although he really didn't blame them. A few people smiled sympathetically, or helped him if his bag slipped and he tried (and failed) to lean down to pick it up. He supposed he looked pained, and unfortunate, and although he had all the left over traits from his military experience, he knew that there was more of a delinquent air about him rather than a clean and precise one. He attributed this solely to his injuries, and his psychiatrist, and hated the fact that people thought they had the right to go around feeling sorry for him without knowing anything about what he'd done for his country.
And he had, done something that is. Why else would he have a military-appointed psychiatrist after all?
Eventually, after seven more floors and a large, encompassing, all consuming pain, Damon made it to his ward and moved into reception, up to the desk so he could collapse against it, panting as he did all he could to keep himself upright. Sophie, the receptionist, rushed to him immediately, directing him to a chair, and she handed him a glass of water and she left to get the doctor.
He almost told her not to bother.
The glass was shaking.
Sophie herself was one of the only people Damon liked around here. She was young and sweet and seemed to actually care about his well being without forcing him to relive his nightmares every Friday at four pm sharp don't be late. She was also very pretty, and without a boyfriend, and although Damon would have liked to like her he also knew that she deserved better than a washed up cripple like him. So, they were friends, and he was perfectly happy with it. She finished work after his appointments and walked down the stairs with him every week.
Going down stairs always seemed harder.
Eventually Sophie came back to sit next to him, rubbing his back and purposely ignoring his shaking hands so as not to damage his already broken pride usually it didn't hurt this much, but the mechanical frame was growing tired and his head buzzing uncomfortably and he'd refused to exercise any more than walk down to his land-lady for the past week or so. It always hurt more when he neglected himself.
Dr Palmer, the psychiatrist, had told him to exercise in order to calm himself improve his mental state.
He'd told her to fuck off.
Sleep was another thing he'd been missing, no matter how many pills he swallowed, and this was the primary topic of most if not all of his sessions. His doctor thought talking would help him sleep. He thought disagreeing would retain his pride. Neither were, altogether, entirely helpful.
Sophie continued to sit with him, reaching up to help him hold the shaking and shuddering glass at one point, and eventually Doctor Palmer had stepped out of her office and motioned for him to enter her room. Damon had only sighed, hauling the back pack into his shoulder, and gently raised himself up, having to reach down to click part of the frame back into place with a groan. It often got caught when he sat down, just behind the knee, and moving the little rod into place was painful. Sophie walked him to the door and then returned to the receptionist's desk, smiling at him reassuringly as she left, as if to remind him that she'd be waiting when he was done.
He smiled back, lowering his head as he limped into the next room, black hair falling into his bright eyes.
Doctor Palmer led him to an empty seat and he groaned as he sat down, feeling the rod he had just adjusted click out again.
He knew exactly what his good doctor was going to say.
"So, how are you feeling Damon?" Doctor Palmer sat down herself, pulling out some papers and glancing at him over her glasses. She was an intelligent woman, and Damon respected her, but she was also partially ruining his life, so he couldn't help but hate her just as much at the same time.
"Crippled," he replied. He'd learnt better than to say tired; that would surely come up later on in their session, but bringing it up right at the beginning was like opening your door and welcoming the devil to the party.
Palmer only nodded, slightly preoccupied, until she came across the document she was looking for and she turned her attention back on him.
He expected some quip or lecture after his last statement, but received none.
"It has been six months from your original discharge, Damon, and while we have been putting it off for as long as possible both myself and your other physician have had to send a referral up to General Epcot just yesterday."
She was obviously watching for Damon's reaction.
He gave none.
"As you would no doubt expect, due to the extent of your injuries, although I hear your arm is healing nicely, you have been deemed unfit to return to active duty. This, of course, could not be avoided. I was however asked whether you'd be fit to be given an inactive position within the military's Tactics and Strategics Division until such time that you will be able to return to the field."
Damon frowned, glancing up at her. She was looking at him seriously, no trace of light-heartedness or humor in her eyes, and Damon thought that he already knew what her answer would have been.
"I said no."
Damon looked down again, something clenching inside of him, and he found it strange that he couldn't tell whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. He had no purpose, not since he'd left the service, and it was killing him slowly. Despite this, he knew his doctor was right. He didn't think he would ever be ready for anything ever again.
"Damon… I'd like you to tell me what you're thinking."
He stayed quiet for a long time.
"I'm thinking that you've made the right decision."
"Will you tell me why?"
"…no."
A longer silence, and Damon could tell that doctor Palmer was expecting him to either break or add something to his answer.
"…because I don't know."
She nodded, smiling up at him slightly, and scribbled something down on her notepad. "Fair enough. They would also like to know whether you wish to wait another six months or formerly accept your honorable discharge from your military service career."
Damon stayed quite again, but doctor Palmer still waited a few seconds to continue.
"You don't have to answer straight away, you can think about it for a few days. I recommend another trial period, just so you can insure that you don't doubt your actions in the future. You'll have nothing to loose, where you are."
"I don't know where I am."
"But you might in six months."
This brought about another sigh and a small nod and the doctor scribbled down something else before putting away her notebook and facing him directly again.
"Have you spoken to Carter since last week?"
"No."
"How about Jeffry?"
"No."
"Have you spoken to anyone, Damon?"
"…Sophie."
Palmer looked a little happy at this, knowing that while Damon wasn't showing much social improvement he was at least maintaining one point of human contact, although she was obviously not entirely pleased.
"I think you should talk to Carter. Organize a drink with him."
"I don't drink."
"And I'm glad," Palmer returned, talking very professionally, "but you do need to try to talk with someone other than people here at the clinic. You should ask Sophie whether she'd like to meet Carter and Jeffry over the weekend."
"Why?"
"Because it will help you, Damon."
He frowned, not convinced, but Palmer moved on before he could think on it too much.
"How have you been sleeping?"
Damon had been expecting this question. Their sessions usually followed a specific routine; first the how are you Damon, then anything interesting she happens to share, then asking about his social life, and now sleep. He never had much to talk about, and she seemed to understand this to a point, leaving time at the end for him to bore her silence or a useless piece of information that came to him at the time. He hoped she understood, because he was simply too dull to have anything to share.
"Badly. The pills don't work."
"I'd ask you to talk about it, but I know you'll refuse me."
Damon couldn't help but smile just a little at that one.
"It's just the same," he responded, feeling slightly uncomfortable as his hands started shaking again. "Just the recoil, over and over again. The pills don't work."
"You've said," Palmer responded, searching her desk for a piece of paper. I'll think about giving you something stronger, although that won't be until next week, and only if you start showing some improvement."
"In what?"
"Anything. Will you be able to last another week with the ones you've got?"
Damon nodded.
"Good. Now, I won't keep you long today, unless there's something you'd like to talk to me about, Damon?"
She let the sentence hang, obviously hoping for something, and part of Damon actually wished he wouldn't disappoint her this time.
"No."
~.~
Mr Salvatore,
I would ask that you'd keep all loud noises at night to a minimum. I have young children who do not appreciate you shouting and screaming during the early hours of the morning. If this behavior does not stop I will take the matter to our landlady and have you fined and evicted.
Mrs Stevens,
Neighbor.
~.~
It's always the same dream, at the same time, and he wakes himself up with the same screams that rip out of his throat, utterly beyond his unchanging, nonexistent control. It's always the recoil, the reverberation, and the pain from the bullets that have him running, to scared to look back.
But this isn't what causes the screams. Not even the pain from having his shoulder and leg shattered causes something like that, no. He wakes up, shaking violently, afraid and in pain and horribly, dreadfully alone, and he realizes that he has nothing.
Then he starts screaming.
He chooses not to sleep, because maybe then he will be spared the pain that comes with waking up.
It's always the same.
~.~
Mrs Stevens,
I apologize for the noise, although I have no control over it, and I suggest that you buy your children and yourself a set of earmuffs if you are truly having this much trouble tuning it out. You'll also find that I am being housed by military authority, and therefore I will not be able to be evicted unless they deem it necessary. All fines will also have to go through them, and I assure you that if it is the screaming that is the problem you will not get very far.
Do not write to me again,
D. Salvatore.
~.~
Damon coughed, head pounding as he searched blindly for some aspirin. He wasn't allowed anything stronger, both because of the other medication he was taking to help him sleep and his own potential risk to himself, but the aspirin took the edge off, and after drenching his face and hair with freezing water he decided that he wasn't going to sleep through the rest of the night.
With a groan and a curse, Damon moved back into the bedroom of his apartment, slowly turning on the bedside light to assist the flickering globe from the bathroom in illuminating the area. The bed was a tangled mess and Damon occupied himself with straightening it, leaving it neat and perfect after only a few minutes, unable to help his own precision. After this was done he threw on a hoodie, one that made him seem more like a teenager than a crippled veteran, and moved outside, actually bothering locking his door behind him.
The air was ice and not a help to his damp face and hair, but Damon had trouble both noticing and caring. It was strange, having only yourself to watch out for. He could barely remember ever having to watch out for himself at all.
Determined to set his mind at ease, and strangely energetic despite the bone-deep exhaustion that plagued him, moved slowly along his hallway, down the two flights of stairs, and out into the even colder night air.
It was refreshing.
His leg clicked with every step.
Although part of him knew that walking around this late wasn't the best idea, especially in his condition (he was likely to catch a cold, no matter how ridiculous that sounded after everything) but just walking seemed to help quell his unease somewhat and he almost thought that he should apologize to doctor Palmer for not listening to her about exercise.
He supposed that this wasn't the type of exercise she had been talking about anyway.
His walk took him around the block, not too far away, and he decided to cross over at a smaller street to reach a park on the other side. There was a bench there, and his leg was throbbing from the cold, and he thought that maybe sitting and not thinking might help instead of talking about everything all the time. He doubted that he was right, but he didn't really have any other choice.
Even if he decided to ring doctor Palmer, he didn't know what he'd say, or if he'd be able to say anything at all.
He slipped down onto the bench as soon as it was within falling distance, and stretched out his leg, letting it remain immobile for a while. His head fell back, eyes blinking closed as the light from the stars assaulted him.
The screams didn't reach him here.
He thought that this might actually work.
It made him happy, even just a little bit, and he couldn't help but dose off, slightly uncomfortable but happy that the cold was numbing his mind, making it hard for him to conjure up the nightmares and punish himself for leaving all of those men to die.
"Hullo."
Damon would have started at this new voice. He would have, but he didn't, because it was nothing compared to the ring of a canon or recoil of a shot gun. It actually sounded… nice. Almost soothing, and Damon decided that even if he was imagining it he much rather preferred this noise to pained, desperate, broken screaming.
He opened his eyes.
The figure he saw, although slightly dark, was sitting across from him, leaning back casually on the other side of the bench. He blinked at it, seeing steely eyes and curly hair, before closing his eyes again, deciding that seeing this person, man, wasn't as important as that voice. He didn't want to ruin the image given to him by that alone. If only he would speak again.
The silence stretched on for a long time, making Damon frown slightly, but it was only when he felt the man shift that a flash of fear left him and he spoke out loud.
"Say something."
He watched the stranger freeze.
"What would you like me to say?"
A huge sigh passed through Damon as the other provided a reply, showing him that he wasn't dreaming at this point. All his dreams were silent except for the screams and he didn't think they'd bother changing now, especially for his benefit. It was his fault after all.
"I dunno," he yawned, suddenly tired again. "I just like your voice."
The other chuckled loudly, the sound rumbling through the air, and Damon smiled softly.
"I'd come here to tell you I was hungry."
Damon frowned, adjusting himself slightly, hissing as is leg was jarred. He didn't catch the stranger glance at him curiously at that.
"Then eat something," he replied, blinking his eyes open again. The other body was closer now, although he didn't feel uncomfortable, and soon he felt warmth encompass him as those arms held him in an embrace.
He didn't know why he let them.
Soon enough he felt not breath against his neck, also incredibly soothing as a pleasant warmth soaked down, into his bones, forcing away the pain that resided there. The stranger seemed taken back by his lack of movement and struggling, but he could only grow drowsier as a peaceful sleep was brought closer and closer to him.
There was a sharp pain in his neck and then he did squirm, moaning as he was held tightly as drained, suck by suck, from the new bite. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling, in fact it was bringing sleep closer, and Damon couldn't help but shudder and relax completely as he gave in to the feeling. Something pushed into his mind, settling him even as it probed around in there, calming him more than even he thought possible.
Just before sleep came for him the mouth and face drew back and he mewled in protest, tears filling his eyes as his memories threatened to abuse him again. He found those grew eyes above him, now filled with some sort of pity and understanding, and reached up to hold on to those broad shoulders tightly with his shaking hands.
Stop.
Make it stop.
The stranger leaned down to bite again and Damon shuddered before falling into a dreamless sleep.
~.~
Is it this one?
Hey, I shouldn't have to carry you all the way!
Come on now, you're all okay…
Sleepy baby?
I'll be gone real soon.
No, I'm not.
Damon, is it?
Of course, I'll be back for you.
You interest me.
…yes, I promise.
~.~
There were any cries or screams for a long time, and Damon thought that he might have died, wrapped in a warmth as strong as that.
When he woke up in the morning, in his own bed, silence echoing around him, he still didn't believe he was alive.
~.~
I hope I got the right room.
-N
~.~
Damon woke early on Sunday morning, having slept better than he had in a long time. Not as well as Friday, but it was close. The screams weren't quite as loud, his bed not quite so untidy, and the pain in his leg almost gone.
He spend a good half hour removing his cast for his arm, testing weight on his shoulder. It worked perfectly.
He wasn't sure if he was happy, or disappointed.
~.~
The walking stick he was forced to use now that his arm was healed was nothing short of embarrassing.
He couldn't stand it, he was twenty three for christ's sake! He shouldn't have to worry about walking straight and using a cane or living disabled for the rest of his life.
His doctor said he might not, but he couldn't believe her.
~.~
Collecting the mail on Sunday morning, although generally a depressing affair (he'd refused to bring the cane with him, instead stubbornly limping all the way down the stairs) was also rather strange. He moved towards his post box, fumbling for the key, when another hand came around and took them from him, quickly flicking the right one out and unlocking the box. He turned, startled, only to see those steely grey eyes behind him and a large, wolfish smile that he had missed the first night they'd met.
Damon blinked at him, and then turned back to his mail.
The stranger seemed a little perturbed by this, not having experienced a similar kind of reaction, and Damon glanced at the few envelopes in the black box before leaving them be and locking it up again.
"I thought you'd be a little more pleased to see me," the voice behind him rumbled, and Damon turned back to it, leaning against the wall behind him, the little nubs from the corners of the post boxes digging into his back.
Damon only cocked his head to one side, his voice vanishing like it usually did around people.
The stranger waited a little while longer, before sighing again, eyes remaining as bright and steely as ever.
"I wanted to get you a drink."
"I don't drink."
"Then I'll get you something else."
Damon furrowed his brows curiously, eyeing the other man.
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"You interest me."
Damon didn't think he was supposed to know what that meant.
~.~
Nick, the stranger was called. He'd kept his word. Damon couldn't figure out why his pain abated every time Nick was around.
There hadn't been a drink, but there had been the park again, and even though Nick vanished just as silently as last time he popped up again on Monday, and Tuesday night, and Wednesday at around noon, and knocked on Damon's apartment door Thursday, just as he'd woken up screaming again.
Thursday morning was strange.
Sure, Nick felt a lot like having a friend again, but the situation was strange, and Damon didn't really know what to make of it. He thought he might ask doctor Palmer on Friday at 4. She'd having something to say about it, of course, but if he had a friend, then surely she'd be slightly pleased.
People weren't all that bad.
~.~
-click-
Carter? I, umm… it's Damon. I wanted to call to catch up. Jeffry said he was free Saturday, so, if you call him and give me a time then… I guess I'll just be there.
…
-beep-
~.~
Damon Salvatore,
24th squadron,
deploy 4/6
p. no 16
I am writing to inform you that your request for a further four - six month trial period has been accepted.
Sincerely,
P. R. Epcot
US Military,
June, 2006
~.~
Six months seemed like so far away.