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The sky's starting to lighten-- not the dangerous way, not yet, but enough that he knows he hasn't got much longer before enough light actually creeps over the horizon to burn. He can always feel it, or maybe it's in his head; a faint sting, the way you used to feel when you came in from the cold and the room felt stifling and hot no matter what. But he never gets cold anymore, never gets flushed coming in, so maybe it's just his imagination warning him in before the burning starts.
Either way the dark of his hallway is a relief, and his mind is already drifting as he shuts the door behind him and locks it. There's a bottle of blood waiting; he could sleep without eating, he thinks, but he wants it like a cold beer after a long day. It's getting scarce out there, expensive, but the Army takes care of its own. Still...
He's ruminating on this, pulling the chain of his dogtags over his head-- bat-tags, the guys call them sometimes, a holdover from when all this was novel and the VA was just coming into its own-- when the scent hits him and he stops short, stock-still all of a sudden, feeling every inch a predator. He can't figure it out, but he knows it doesn't belong. It's like... It makes him think of summer, when he was a kid: the sweet hot smell of cut grass and baking cement, the thick gold light of August afternoons. Something is definitely wrong, but whatever it is, it's painfully enticing.
He stuffs the dogtags in a pocket and stalks toward the living room, silent add he can manage, hands curled into fists.
Either way the dark of his hallway is a relief, and his mind is already drifting as he shuts the door behind him and locks it. There's a bottle of blood waiting; he could sleep without eating, he thinks, but he wants it like a cold beer after a long day. It's getting scarce out there, expensive, but the Army takes care of its own. Still...
He's ruminating on this, pulling the chain of his dogtags over his head-- bat-tags, the guys call them sometimes, a holdover from when all this was novel and the VA was just coming into its own-- when the scent hits him and he stops short, stock-still all of a sudden, feeling every inch a predator. He can't figure it out, but he knows it doesn't belong. It's like... It makes him think of summer, when he was a kid: the sweet hot smell of cut grass and baking cement, the thick gold light of August afternoons. Something is definitely wrong, but whatever it is, it's painfully enticing.
He stuffs the dogtags in a pocket and stalks toward the living room, silent add he can manage, hands curled into fists.
