Explosions riddle the ground as a platoon kneels patiently in the trenches, someone familiar is giving an order that can't quite be heard over the sounds of the bombardment only a few meters away from where they are hidden. For a moment the trenches become quiet, a deafening silence that threatens them, leaving the air tense around the company of soldiers. One of the men is playing with his breast pocket, producing a tiny handheld mirror which he promptly lifts over the ditch walls. The aerial bombardment continues outside of their literal hole in the ground, until the man with the mirror curses under his breath, catching the attention of his squadron.

He has little time to respond, and he finds that his only option is to push his commanding officer out of the line of fire before the projectile finds its way to the man's hip and proceeds to burst on impact. "No." She can hear herself saying, eyes wide from shock. The smell of old blood hangs in the air, thick and revolting as it invades her nostrils. She finds that she is unable to move herself out of the spot she was thrown back to as a man of superior rank places his hand on her shoulder. His face is foggy, and she can hardly make out what he's saying, but she knows that tone; an order. He is shouting some sort of command in her direction, looking the young woman in the face as he shouts her name in tandem with another aerial strike as it embeds itself into the trench only a few short meters from their bodies.

"Watson!"

The boom of the final explosion startles her awake; setting her nerves on fire as the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The need to lift herself from the sweat-strained sheets below her person is instant upon waking. It takes several moments, and multiple deep breaths for the young woman to grasp at reality and realize where she was exactly. "Bedsit." Watson's brain reminded herself, and she took the opportunity to fall back onto the threadbare sheets below her body. She sucked in a few more shaky breaths, placing her forearm over her eyes as the gulps of air turned into choked sobs.

She lays against the sheets until her cries subside and her breathing is under control. Running a hand through her sandy blonde hair, the young woman stairs up at her plain ceiling, surrounded by boring walls and minimal furniture. She does this to busy her mind, doing her best to forget the dreams and hide the pain that comes along with them. When that doesn't work (and the dampness of her sheets gets to her), Watson rises from her bed to pull away her bedding. She tosses the plain grey of the sheets into the hamper, moving to replace them with new fabric soon after. And then she's laying on her bed again, staring at the ceiling; unable to fall back asleep.

And as the first few strands of sunlight seep their way through the curtains and onto the floor, she rises from the uncomfortable twin mattress and throws her striped dressing gown around her shoulders, tying it at the waist as she makes her way to the kitchen for breakfast.

As the sun rises and her morning coffee is in hand, she finds herself staring down at the cane that was sat gently against the wall. There's something in the way she narrows her eyes at the object as she takes the head of the staff firmly in her hand. Something fierce, something resentful. But the moment is lost just as soon as it comes and upon first light, the snow ex-solider hobbles her way to the wooden desk that sits rather lonesome against the wall opposite her bed.

Watson sets her morning coffee down against the cheaply made surface, as well as a palm sized green apple. After tucking her leg underneath the desk with a grunt and sitting comfortably, she slips her hand to the drawer to her right. Pulling it open half-way, she removes a laptop computer from the desk; waking the device from its sleep mode as it is opened and placed next to her coffee.

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JANINE H. WATSON

The cursor winks away on the thin screen, expectant; wanting. Watson's face contorts into a frown and her brow furrows as she opts to focus (or at least try to focus, that is) instead of scanning the title over and over again. Clasping her hands together, she places them over her mouth; glaring at the empty, intimidating (though she would never say it out loud) screen. All the while, the cursor blinks away.

"How's the blog going?" A voice asks, inquisitively. Its tone is equally as expectant as the cursor on Janine's computer screen had been that morning. The owner of the voice sits across from the ex-soldier, her patient, her posture open and her notepad out.

"Oh, fine. Good. Very good." Janine's eyebrows furrow. Whether it is in an effort to believe her own lie, or focus on her therapy session, she can't decide. So, she tells herself to focus; though it's obvious she'd rather not be here. Ella, the therapist, looks at Janine knowingly.

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

Ella makes a note against the paper's flat surface and opens her mouth to speak but stops short of her patient's reply. "And you just wrote "still has trust issues"." To which Ella glances down at her notes once again, thinking. She points the butt of the pen in Janine's direction, an aggressive move though her posture and expression are still unthreatening.

"And you're reading my writing upside down. You see what I mean?"

The corner of the young Watson's mouth tugs upward suddenly, a ghost of a smirk passing her lips, but her finger tips tap irritably against the arm of the leather chair she is seated in. "Janine," Ella shakes her head, doing her best to reason with the woman. "You're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life." She makes a mental note of Janine's stiff posture and continues, her tone a little more sympathetic. "And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Watson's finger tips press into the leather on the arm rests until her nails are white. When she answers the woman across from her, Janine's jaw is tight, and the emotion is clear on her face; though she does her best not let her comment sting. Ella has done nothing wrong to her. Nonetheless, the resentment is there as she comments:

"Nothing ever happens to me."