It always came back to him in flashbacks and echoes.
He could still see their wide, unseeing, unblinking eyes. He could hear their screams, the crackle of sick, twisted laughter, and the sound of roaring elements. He saw the flashes of red, blue, white, purple, orange, and green beneath his eyelids every time he blinked. He smelled the burning flesh, and wood, and he could almost always smell the blood mixed with sweat and water. He could feel their cold skin beneath his fingertips, and the feel of wet tears, and sticky blood, and a feeling of cold, numb shock seep through him whenever he reached the land of dreams. He was forever living in a nightmare.
It always made him think of the past.
He always made an effort not to dwell on what had happened to him, but how could he not? He saw himself in his son, and he saw his wife in their daughter. He saw his best friend in his nephew, and in his godson, he saw an echo of his honorary godfather and the woman he had married before he died. It made his heart ache, and his eyes water.
It always was the knowledge that they had something that was foreign to him that made him choke.