Chapter1
The silence of Dr. Aris's office was often more suffocating than the clamor of a battlefield. Morgan Smith sat across from the therapist, his hands clasped, knuckles bone-black paled. The faint hum of the air conditioner, a sterile counterpoint to the chaotic symphony of his mind, did little to soothe him.
"And how are you feeling today, Morgan?" Dr. Aris's voice was as smooth as polished stone, yet it always felt like sand in Morgan's ears. It was the same question, every Tuesday, every week for the past two years, and the answer was always a variation of 'not good enough.'
Today, it was more than just "not good enough." Today, the memories were particularly insidious, not just flashes, but full-blown scenes, unbidden and unwelcome. He'd tried to articulate them, to parcel out the trauma in neat, digestible chunks, but the words felt hollow, inadequate. The hustle environment, as he'd come to call it – the constant demand to "move on," to "find closure," to "be okay" – was a different kind of war, and he was losing.
He closed his eyes, and the memories surged, an unholy tide. Not the heroics, not the medals, not the camaraderie. Only the grit, the screams, the acrid scent of cordite and fear. He was back in the dust, the sun a malevolent eye in the sky, his comrades' faces etched with the raw terror of the moment. The distant thud of artillery, the frantic shouts…
"Morgan?" Dr. Aris's voice cut through the phantom noise, gentle yet firm.
He opened his eyes, blinking, the plush office furniture slowly replacing the stark, unforgiving landscape of his past. He cleared his throat, the metallic taste of old fear still lingering. "It's… the same, Doctor. Maybe worse. We talk about it, sure, but it feels like I'm just scratching the surface of a wound that's gone septic. Like the words… they don't even touch it."
He shifted, the leather chair squeaking under his weight. "I keep seeing… things. Not just snippets. Full scenes. The ones you try to forget. And the strange thing is," he leaned forward, his voice dropping, "they're starting to feel… different. Like there's something new in them. Something I missed."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Dr. Aris's face – curiosity? Concern? – before she straightened her glasses. "Different how, Morgan?"
Morgan hesitated. How to explain the feeling that the past was shifting, subtly, like sand underfoot? Like a film replaying with a hidden frame, a whispered sound he'd never heard before. He hadn't told her about the dreams yet, the ones where the faces of his comrades weren't quite right, where the landscape morphed into something impossible, something fantastical. He hadn't told her about the chilling sense that perhaps, just perhaps, what he remembered wasn't the whole truth