Author's Note: I forgot to mention before that the characters in this story are humanised, as I always write them. I'm also sorry for the awfully slow start. It'll go on for about two more chapters, but please bear with me. I just like building the tension up until the conflict starts. Anyway, please enjoy reading.

Chapter One

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My head was aching again, and the unwelcome throbbing forced me to sit on my bunker bed for a while. I grimaced as I held my head with the both of my hands, pushing the pain back to the hellhole where it came from. Closing my eyes, I felt the pain fade into a halt and I couldn't help but sigh in relief.

My name was Flippy, and this was how I spent most of my mornings: suffering from a horrible headache, and grunting to no one but to the empty bunker beds inside this dreary military hangar I call home. Despite the fact that I had been—in a sense—sick these past few days, you couldn't tell that I was suffering from it because I had a fairly sun-drenched skin, though the grey circles underneath my light green dagger sharp eyes—can give the impression away. Sleep was practically a luxury for me, considering that I was a soldier from the army. Because of that, I had a tall stature complimented by a muscular build, and a dirty blonde buzz cut hair. I actually liked keeping my hair this short, because if it grew longer—it turns into a shade of green under the daylight, which was unusual.

In general, I was an average military person, with a visage that can pass for a trustworthy face.

And what kind of sickness was I suffering from? Well, professionals call it 'Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.' As for me, I'd like to call it 'A Stressful Pain in the Ass.' It was a condition that can be resulted if the person was exposed to traumatic events, and my therapist gave me that diagnosis a few weeks ago. I didn't think of my condition to be that severe for it to be named though. I was just upset because the memory was still fresh inside my mind, and I'd like to believe that I was going to be alright soon.

I motioned towards my pillows and groped for a canister of pills underneath. Finding what I was looking for, I opened and shook the container—dropping a pill on my other palm. I stared at it for a moment, unsure if I needed another dosage of the medication.

Our resident therapist prescribed me these pills, hoping that it would help me clear my head. Ever since I came back, I was haunted by the horrors of war and every night, I saw the faces of the people I killed and the people I had left behind. Strangers and friends alike. They all condemn me to burn in guilt.

I was ashamed of it. Ashamed that I couldn't do—didn't do anything to save them. What was worse was that I was rewarded for my cowardice, being the only one who came back and was able to live his life once more.

I remember them though—their faces, their voices. It seemed only yesterday when they'd make terrible jokes to entertain themselves. Making fun of anything and anyone just to have a good laugh, because it might be their last.

Yeah...

I can hear them. Sadly, now, only in my memories.

Thinking about them led me into remembering the last time I saw their faces and the chaos that surrounded us, imprisoning and suffocating. And I remember how their mangled bodies awakened me, how their lifeless eyes stared towards my direction—as if blaming me for their deaths, and promising vengeance. I cringed at the thought.

Pain broke into the doors of my head again, screaming and pounding from the back of my skull. It left me no choice but to take the pill in order to stop me from my destructive behavior. So, without any hesitation, I downed the pill into my dry throat, closing my eyes in the process.

I closed the lid of the canister and threw it carelessly on my bed. I needed something more than the pills to throw my mind into an ease.

Unexpectedly, my digital military watch beeped, reminding me of my appointment with the resident therapist. I snorted, not liking the idea, but it was routine so I had to go. With that, I set the alarm off and headed for his office.

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I stood in front of the office's mahogany door and inhaled heavily, before turning its knob and taking a peek inside. There, I saw my therapist standing in front of his window—presumably admiring the weather outside. I knocked on the door in order to get his attention, since it appeared that the sound of me—opening the door—wasn't enough.

He turned to me, confused as to why I was here. It seemed to me that he wasn't keeping track of his appointment schedules. But then, he greeted and let me into his office, offering the seat next to his wooden office table. I obliged and then waited for the session to start. It usually began when he took a seat and asked me about how my day went, but he appeared to be busy looking for my file in his haphazard collection of paperwork.

I found myself lost at the clutter of his office. It was baffling how he could get around this office without frustrating himself. Surely, it was imperative for him to organize his stuff, but he wasn't doing that. It made me sarcastically tell myself that I was in good hands. If can't do so much of being organized, how sure was I that he could do differently with his job?

"So, Flippy," he said as he was browsing through my file and taking a seat on his leather executive chair. "How was your day?"

"Fine, I guess. Nothing much happened." I replied, blandly.

"Yeah?" he took his glasses from its case and then focused on me. "Did you have any nightmares, anything I should know about?"

"No, nothing. If there was, I can't remember. I just had a headache this morning, the usual."

He sighed deeply and leaned his back on his chair, as if he knew something but didn't want me to know. I probably didn't want to know it either. After spending a few seconds into thinking, his expression changed, like one person would have when he had a eureka moment. I raised an eyebrow at him, perplexed.

"You've been granted shore leave, haven't you?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Have you considered using that time to take a break? From what you've told me, you haven't been doing anything else besides your duty as a soldier."

It was true, and I knew where he was getting at. "Yes, but, I'm not entirely sure where to go. I'm not really fond of travelling."

"Surely, you can go somewhere. How 'bout your hometown?" he asked, maintaining eye contact.

I sneered at him. I had one, but it didn't mean that I still considered that place as my home. I started to think that I made a mistake coming here. I wasn't sure how much this man could help me, but here I was—desperately waiting for his ground-breaking advice.

"I have," I said almost quietly, unsure if I just told a lie or the truth.

He looked at me with a hint of skepticism, and was about to say something but held it back instead. Maybe he was getting frustrated at me too, since I wasn't giving too much away. The therapist took his pen and wrote something in my file. I ignored him and chose to took down on his dusty carpet instead. Whatever he was writing, I didn't want to know.

"Well, Flippy. Maybe it's best for you to go back to your hometown." he said, putting his pen down and then crossing his legs before continuing. "The different environment might help you have a different perspective about yourself."

That was it? That was his insightful conclusion? For all he knew, my hometown could be a dangerous hive of criminals. That wasn't true, fortunately—but still. Despite my rather negative reaction, I kept my bashful thoughts to myself. I didn't want him writing another paragraph on my file and diagnosing me with another atrocious mental disease.

So, I nodded hesitantly and thanked him for the advice. He smiled gleefully in return. I think I gave the poor fool the impression of actually helping me with my predicament. In silence, I stood up and left the room.

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Soon enough, I was clearing my closet and packing my stuff up for the shore leave that had been granted to me. It had been eight years since I left, and I was pretty sure that my hometown was now filled with strangers. I tried to remember the people I had left behind, anyone who could be anticipating my return. Unfortunately, I couldn't, and I had the impression that I would come off as a tourist in my own hometown.

After folding my last pair of clothes, I zipped my bag up and carried it by its strap on my shoulder. I lingered for a while and took a glimpse at my neatly made bed, of where I saw my green beret lying peacefully on. I argued to myself if I should bring it with me or not, having such an attachment to the uniform. But I brushed the idea off and instead of taking it with me, I decided to let it rest on my pillow. Then there was this orange colored canister that held my medication—poking its head underneath my pillow. I took it and I was disgusted by the idea that I needed it.

As I headed towards the door, the wall mirror beside me caught my attention—because there was this foreign image it reflected that made me mentally laugh in amusement.

The person before me shared the same physical features with me, only that he was wearing layers of clothes composed of a forest green button-up, a brown sweater vest, and a black leather jacket. My stare trailed off towards the bottom half of his body, which was clothed with dark denim pants, and then towards his feet which were protected by his muddy black combat boots.

It had been a while since I saw myself wearing casual clothes.

Alright, Flippy. You're off to a fresh start.

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