⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Salvatore

Salvatore didn't want to give you any reason that he was struggling, not like he was, he wasn't, that was the truth. He wasn't cheating, never. He wasn't destroying himself with sex, never. He wasn't obliterating his body for drugs and alcohol, never. That wasn't him.

However, each time you mentioned therapy, he couldn't help but say: "No." Because he wasn't struggling, he wasn't. There was nothing to be upset over, the war was finished with, and there was nothing to be talked about. He didn't want to sit for hours on end and talk about his problems and the shit he went through, it was nonsense.

Salvatore chose it, and that was final. He didn't want therapy, didn't use substances, and didn't use sex as an escape. But oh, at these quiet moments, when he would be isolated for long periods of time, he felt out of his body, staring back down at him.

He sat on the recliner, letting out a content sigh and grabbed the remote, flicking through channels before settling on a comedy, about a little boy lost in the face of New York city, going through trials and errors.

Salvatore grinned and laughed, watching as the little boy struggle with his luggage, tripping on a rock. The little boy was scared, his face lacked melatonin and blood, pale like he was about to faint at any moment.

His arms raised behind his head and an IED strapped around his torso, mumbling: ''don't hurt me..' with a whimper. Salvatore could only raise his gun and point towards the head of the little boy, identifying him as an enemy and dangerous to him and his soldiers. It felt like time stopped, and the world ended.

Salvatore didn't know what a monster was till it faced him in the mirror. He felt the hands on his biceps and slapped himself there, the scratches and clawing aching into his skin to the point of blood, the whispers: 'don't leave me.' and this ache he had in his chest.

He glanced down at his feet, seeing the body of a civilian he had mistaken for an enemy, the face of the teenage boy mangled to ruins, eyes lacking any colour and soul behind them, the teeth in all different directions and the gums bloody, his chest dampened with dark red blood and smelled metallic to the point he gagged.

Around the boys neck, a cross, and a cross in the palm of the boys hand. Salvatore had to keep moving, pushing the boy aside and kept heading to his destination route towards an advantage point. There was no time for sympathies.. or condolences of the little boys he killed, nothing. This was what he signed up for, and he expected it.

Salvatore hid behind a tree, the small thuds of his ammunition hitting the ground similar to the rhythmic beat to his heart. "Don't leave me," A grunt appeared aside him, his soldier, his best friend, holding onto his chest where a bullet wound plagued, droplets of blood on the corner of his mouth. "I won't." Salvatore could only promise.

Then he reminded himself of those little boys, those children he had shot dead and snippets of their brain and blood on his uniform. He remembered the texture, hard and sticky, blood particles beneath his nails.

Salvatore didn't know the movie had finished, only that he sat there staring at the blank screen, the clock ticking and ticking like a deafening parcel. His nails buried into the arm rest and his eyes staring at the reflection of himself on the TV screen.

Only that there was no movie he hadn't watched, about the little boy lost in New York, only that he sat there, and he hadn't felt you shaking him. Only that he was there, but not at all.

"What?" Salvatore asked.