Daniel, His Body Remembers
His fingers search for his dog tags, but find only empty space. Sold or lost, he cannot recall, and the gaps swallow whole days. He sleeps in fitful naps, haunted by the return of their eyes: the glint of light, the sudden widening, the calmness that follows. He has tried to turn away from that final image, but it always finds him. Sometimes, the other dreams are darker still.
He reminds himself he was young then, as if that could explain it all. He often folds his arms tightly across his chest, fists grasping his sleeves the way he once clasped his rifle, crawling for cover. He’s mostly unaware of the gesture; his body remembers. A voice cries out down the street behind him, and Daniel remains motionless.
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