PTSD Nightmare

The sound of gunfire awoke Frank from his uneasy sleepwalking. Over the sound of gunfire, Frank's commander began screaming for the men to run from the enemy was gaining fast on their heels.

There was so much confusion, too many bodies surging forward, too little air to breathe, all snatched away by the terrified soldiers' pants and gasps. Because of all their gear and the humidity, sweat soon licked Frank's armpits, neck, and groin before moving onto the rest of his body. The air reeked with the stench of the mens' body odor and mixed strangely with the smell of wet vegetation. The sound of their pounding boots hitting the hard packed dirt was all Frank heard along with the not so far away gunfire. Adrenaline screamed through his veins, tightening his throat to the point of nearly suffocating him.

At some point Frank was pushed from the middle of the group, the safest place, to the edge. "Let me in! Please!" he screamed desperately, trying to claw his way back in - he was drawing blood from the the skin of the soldiers that he came into contact with, but their bodies were as solid as a brick wall.

It seemed that destiny had a morbid sense of humor, for it was chance that he stepped on a landmine. The pain that consumed him was a hundred times worse than a tattoo artist's hungry needle ever could be. The man gave only one long scream before he fainted from the agony.

Only halfway conscious, Frank became aware that he was being rocked. He smiled and nestled into his soft warm pillow, happy that he was back aboard the ship - but at that thought he stopped and frowned. Wait - had he not just been running? How could he be back on the ship already? His legs...

Upon opening his eyes the first thing Frank was aware of was his rapidly beating heart, of how the fear lingered, making him feel strangely light as if he wasn't fully attached to his body. The second was that instead of being in bed, he was sitting in Bob's lap, head tucked beneath his chin. The older man held him securely in his arms, softly singing a half remembered song to himself as he patiently waited for him to wake up. Apart from Bob's singing, the only sound was the slow back and forth creaking of wood. It was a sound that had comforted Frank through countless nights, ruined by horrific flashbacks that others labeled as nightmares. Practicing what he had been taught, Frank breathed deeply until the fear had calmed to a manageable level.

By this time Bob knew he was awake and stopped singing, but continued rocking. He enjoyed holding Frank close, it made him feel needed when he held his husband's slender body during his nightmares.

An hour passed in this silent manner, before Bob stood up and headed towards the kitchen, knowing Frank would be hungry by this time. The wooden floorboards creaked softly under their combined weight, but the sound was nothing new to the two; it barely registered to their senses anymore. Frank sighed and wrapped his arms around his husband's neck, laying his head on Bob's broad shoulder, taking comfort in his strength.

When at home Frank was used to being carried everywhere by Bob. The doctors scolded the practice, saying Frank needed to continue to be as mobile as possible, while the therapists said the younger man would begin to resent how dependent Bob (supposedly) made him. But the truth was that both of them didn't mind the arrangement. Frank enjoyed being held so often by his love, having been deprived of it during the war.

After being re-united with his husband, a month after the war had ended and seeing that his legs - from his knees down - were gone, Bob had decided then and there to always be there for Frank. And so he began to take care of his lover full-time.

To fend off the doctors both Frank and Bob worked out four days a week, Frank so he could stay in shape and get around if needed, and Bob so that he could securely hold and carry his husband for long periods of time. To keep the therapists at bay both men did either a solitary activity they enjoyed, or went out with friends. The two men were lucky in that they had made war friends and many of them had lived, though not all came out physically unscathed.

Setting him down in a kitchen chair, Bob began making breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes to be exact. It was as the fifth pancake sizzled into the skillet that the younger man whispered "I lost my legs again," looking at where his calves and feet should have been. Bob said not a word, concentrating on the pancake, making sure it was a golden brown and not burnt. He knew it was best not to push, he didn't want Frank to feel he had to rush to tell him the nightmare and then feel like Bob hadn't heard him out.

"I... I got shoved out of the middle, I tried to so fucking hard to get back in, but... they wouldn't let me." he whispered shivering from the terror that was all too easy to recall, something that had not faded even after a year of the war being done. As silent as always, Bob scooped Frank up and held him close, hugging away his fears.

"When will these nightmares go away Bob? I'm so tired of being scared." Frank sobbed winding his arms around Bob's neck, wrapping his phantom legs around his waist, and locking his ankles. Bob clenched his jaw and held his sweetheart closer, his heart torn to shreds by the pain and fright in his husband's voice.

"Someday, sweetheart, someday." he murmured. Frank gave a humorless laugh and wiped his eyes on Bob's shirt.

"How I love that fucking word." he sarcastically muttered.

"It's the best word in the world." Bob agreed, bringing wry smiles to both their faces.