Wherever the wind blew, it brought with itself a hint of melancholy and longing as mother nature hung her winter cloak back up in her divine wardrobe. With spring enveloping the land in its gentle, breezy embrace, every tree, bush flower emerged from its slumber, flourishing and regaining lost leaves. For a certain group of four mercenaries, the season passed quickly, leaving their hands full of work and frail paper bills for a job well done, one after another. Andy felt right at home with the trio, or so he kept telling himself. Amongst W's constant displays of various untreated mental illnesses at play, Hedley's unbroken stoicism and Ines' endless aloofness, the boy kept to himself most of the time, burying his bashful thoughts and feelings deep within the fleshy confinements of his developing brain. He couldn't really call any of the mercs a "friend", having already given up hope of ever finding one in this land of death and misery. Not that it mattered, of course, as the mask he put on every single day along with his clothes and guns kept his frail, weak self from seeping outside into the real world and opening up to anyone, anyway. The mask of this perfect "Mr Ricketts", it was. Carved off the fallen guardian's face and soul, distorted by Andy's naiveness and ignorance of the man's flaws. In his childish eyes, Ricketts was nothing short of a true national hero, a man of courage, fighting for his values and acting so selfless, giving his life for the boys'. And he was also so very cool! So very cool, such a cool war hero, with his sharp aim and badass aura!
Such was his naive mind's projection of the man he aspired to be. Long dead was "Andrew Reiff" from a past desperately buried underneath years upon years of hatred and fear - murdered by the land of old, torn from the boy's mushy mind and locked away for eternity.
Somehow, someway, bits and pieces of that lost child would find themselves seeping back into his head during those late, warm nights, spent gazing at his tent's tarp and daydreaming of a future meant for someone else. At those times, when W's insane buzzing had died down, when he found himself far away, hidden from Ines' cold glares and Hoederer's wary sight, he'd start imagining.
It always began with a few shy, uncertain wishes developing in the vast emptiness of his homesick mind. After a few looks at the photograph of himself and the two girls, the darkness of the night around him would begin to shift and change, transporting him into the deepest and most covert recesses of his imagination. Within this land born from longing and melancholy, he'd always find himself wandering the empty streets of the White City, grazing the familiar marbles with his weak touch, brushing his fingers across the grand fountains, the cigarette stench filled hallways, the school corridors and any other place he could still haphazardly remember. With an overwhelming feeling of guilt leading him through the city gates towards the familiar peach orchard, only to be met by rows upon rows of graves, each one of them bleak and depraved beyond comprehension. Bodies protruding from the ground, staring at him, judging his every step, whispering among themselves in sepulchral symphonies of the dead. Each one of their faces, reminiscent of someone he's seen before. Someone he's killed before.
The sun was nowhere to be seen, hidden beyond a flock of gray clouds, unmoving and endless. His clothes, all torn and covered in blood incessantly seeping from his palms. At the very end of his path, accompanied by a cruel funeral dirge, stood the very personification of his guilt and regrets. With her overgrown hair freely rolling around the grass, her sharp gaze fixed on the approaching boy, the reaper in the form of a distorted image of no one else but his blue haired friend was there to judge him. Andy always felt as if she was the one person he brought the most pain upon with his selfishness and mindless choice. Someone he once held so dear, was now right in front of him, staring into the depths of his soul with a gaze so unlike her. With her halo dim and her wings shattered, he could feel an overwhelming cold pulsating off of her, washing over him and enveloping him whole. Even if he tried to speak, to ask and beg for forgiveness, he couldn't. He wanted to drop to his knees and apologize until his lungs became swollen, until his throat dried up, until his vocal cords gave out and broke like a guitar's string pulled too sharply.
But no sound had ever left his lips. He was forced to stand and watch as she gazed into his eyes, her blue irises boring into his mind and filling him with nothing but disappointment in himself. The same sort of disappointment she had been feeling ever since he left. It was worse than any scolding, any talking down he had ever received. The only sound that echoed through the vast, open fields were her harsh parting words and her footsteps against the marble, leaving him feeling weak in the knees.
Once he tried reaching out to grasp her fluid-like robes fluttering in the wind, the whole scene would blur and wash away, sending clouds of ash twirling all around, an overwhelming smell of burnt alcohol filling his nostrils.
He'd then find himself standing in a strangely familiar hallway. With the coziest, fluffiest furniture, the warmest, brightest rhubarb wainscot and an alluring smell of freshly baked pastries in the air. Pictures all sprung around the walls, like mushrooms after a downpour, depicting nothing but distorted bits and images from his life. Some of them scratched, covered by opaque glass - others, filled with happiness and genuine glee at full display. A photo of that one time he pushed Mostima into a fountain, with her yelling unintelligible obscenities through a curtain of wet hair covering her face. A picture of the three of them running around a lively gun show, carrying an oversized LMG over their heads like some prized trophy, and navigating the narrow maze of people, trying to escape the gun's fuming owner. As he ventured deeper down the hallway, the pictures turned brighter. More homogenous, following a certain theme. A very redheaded, beaming theme.
Andy would find himself staring at her gleeful grin over and over again, wherever his gaze went. Her bright, golden halo, her glimmering wings, so lifelike and real. His mind's interpretation of how she'd look after all these years, had he ever made it back home. As his feet shuffled through the fluffy forests of fuzzy rugs covering the warm, wooden floors, Lemuel kept winking and smirking at him from the endless flocks of framed photos and paintings adorning the melty walls. Everything felt so vibrant, so calm, so right. With each step, the smell of pie only grew in intensity, alluringly leading him towards a cherrywood door at the end of the hallway. There, behind the obstacle laid that very familiar room, filled to the brim with fancy cabinets and snug couches, covered in a never ending supply of fluffy plushies. Not a gun in sight. Not a single treacherous poster hanging off the wall.
In the middle of it all was the one sight he's been yearning and pining for throughout all these years. Waiting just for him, lying on her side, with her hands between her thighs and a gentle smile adorning her bright, tired face. She'd sit up, making space for him to join her on the couch. Sitting so very close to one another, Andy felt truly at home. So touch starved and desperate for attention, he'd lean his burdened head atop her small shoulder, letting his weak, frail frame rest against hers. The endless river of wild, galloping thoughts, the unending storm of guilt and pain raging within him would be shoved to the side, making way for a feeling strange and unknown, one that he had never experienced before. A feeling so potent, yet so gentle and warm, filling him with hope and flicking all his worries to the side, down a cliff of oblivion. He'd feel her silky smooth hair gently tickling his weary face, the sweet scent of apples and cut grass seeping into his nostrils and calming the worries of the mind. Nothing else mattered but her during those intimate moments spent in complete, comfortable silence. Those moments of absolute certainty, when Andy knew exactly who he was and what he needed to do. When Ricketts disappeared and that scared, lost little boy came alive once again, clinging desperately onto this perfect, fabricated image of his best friend. This image of pure comfort, smiling down upon the wicked and sliding her gentle fingers around the brim of his halo, sending waves upon waves of warmth down his spine. With her hand buried deep in his dirty, bloodied curls, there was nothing else in the world but him and her. Andy Reiff and this comforting, distorted image of Lemuel. It always felt strange. Like some sort of awakening in his pubescent mind, forced into a slow process of blooming at a snail-like pace due to the chaos and absurdity of his environment. Giving into this feeling, Andy would find himself enveloped in the girl's warm embrace, turning his legs and brain to jelly. Each second he spent in this fabricated reality, hugging the false image of a person so dear, it kept dragging him further and further away from the guilt building within and the bleak truth of the real world. That was, up until a loud clanging would wake him from the slumber, always at the same crisp hour of five in the morning.
"WAKEY, WAKEY, LAWBOY! THERE'S MONEY TO MAKE AND PEOPLE TO KILL, GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THAT TENT!"
With W dancing around right outside his tent, continuously hitting two metal pans against each other, Andy couldn't do anything else but grumble in annoyance and rub his eyes to wash away the grogginess. With the image of Lemuel's warm smile still fresh in his memory, he'd throw on his clothes and say a final goodbye to his two friends from back home, shoving the picture into his pocket. It was time to put on the mask and say hello to his other group of friends, the ones who kept him alive all this time in Kazdel. With Droz on his back, Isaiah on his hip and Ricketts hanging from his neck, he begrudgingly left the tent, unwillingly welcoming a new day in hell.