The first night back brought him the best sleep he'd had in eight years.
The second night was too warm and the mattress felt too foreign to be comfortable.
On the third night, the nightmares came.
It was gradual, at first. A snatch of a memory, or the sting of an old wound. Any noise outside sounded like the door of his cell being opened. Even a whisper of wind would wake him, but then at least he was awake and not drowning in a dream – although, being alive and awake felt so surreal it might as well have been drowning too.
After a week, he woke up screaming.
Since that night, he dropped his pillow on the floor and lay stretched out on the carpet because it felt familiar. The carpet was rough and irritated his skin but if he squeezed his eyes shut tight enough, Lucas could imagine he was back there.
It was a fatal craving.
Russia had been the worst thing to happen to him but after eight years he got used to the routine, and now he tried to carve Russia into England, to remember how he felt but leave behind the physical pain.
Lucas figured emotional suffering had nothing on a burning iron rod, electrocution, the knives. He may have left those particular implements behind but his thoughts were manifesting themselves into weapons capable of causing equal torture.
The nightmares were muted when he slept on the floor, so he ignored the ache in his muscles -he'd happily put up with a little discomfort to be released from the dreams.
But eventually, they crawled from the mattress across the floor, like ink spreading across the carpet, reaching out a tendril and ripping Lucas from unconsciousness, complete with sweat and even tears after a particularly gruesome flashback.
He was free after eight years but longed for the cold cell floor to curl up on, to fall asleep and not have to resurface.