Like a monster in the shadows, war followed him wherever he went. In the people who walked past him on the street, in the sounds he heard. Cannonfire and gunshots. Blood in his mouth and dirt settling in his lungs. He was constantly drowning in nightmares only to realize he was awake only to realize he was dreaming again. War had a way of blurring the boundaries between reality and fiction, even when it was over.
He did his best. He went to therapy when he could, talked to people, made sure not to close himself off too much. Some days, the weight of the world crushed him and he couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Other days, it was easier. But no matter what he did, war found its way back in. It clawed at his insides and poisoned his heart.
His enemies came to taunt him. They tore him apart, made him pay for what he’d done. They held him there in the darkness until guilt and fear, hopelessness and despair claimed what was left and then they dragged him across the rocks, left out to die. He was Prometheus and they were the eagle tearing out his liver every night.
The war might have ended around him, but it’d found a new home in his mind.