Raymond

Prologue

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The One That Got Away.

There comes a point in one's life where we die.

It’s in the back of our minds as we fight. We cause it, but sometimes we don’t think it can happen to us. Life was better when we thought we were immortal, not that we were one bullet away from darkness. While some spend every waking moment wondering when it’ll be them the bullet picks, some numb themselves until they can barely see the bullets.

One freckled recruit stood out. Raymond Langley was one of the most entertaining rookies when he first enlisted. He was green, and had that brightness in his eyes unshadowed by the war. But as time went, the brightness dimmed... but not all the way. Flying helped, being in the sky, and so did jokes. He would prank his squad members, raise their spirits in the trenches when bombs went off and you had to check which helmet belonged to a corpse or a man.

He shone bright among his friends, he shone brighter as he took off the runway with that crooked smile and thumbs up.

He shone the brightest when his plane spiraled on fire into the ground and exploded.

---

He tasted dirt. Not the gritty, familiar dirt of a foxhole, but something metallic, something... old. The scent of burnt cordite had been replaced by a cloying sweetness, like rotting flowers. He opened his eyes, and the world swam into focus, a distorted, fractured image of a battlefield. He blinked rapidly, banishing the stubborn haze that obscured his vision. In front of him sprawled the battlefield, barren and silent save for the acrid whisper of the wind. Charred bodies littered the landscape.

Raymond coughed, a wet, rattling sound that sent a jolt of pain through his ribs. He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. He blinked, trying to clear the haze that clung to his vision.

The battlefield was empty, corpses littering the ground burnt to an unrecognizable crisp. Twisted metal, the skeletal remains of trees, and craters scarred the landscape. The sky, a bruised purple, hung heavy. He recognized the terrain – the outskirts of some battlefield, a hellscape he’d flown over countless times. But something was off. The wreckage was... different. More rusted, more decayed. As if it’s been awhile since he’s woken up. His gaze drifted to the twisted wreckage beside him. What remained of his DH-4 lay crumpled, not even sparks flying. The impact had ripped it apart, scattering debris like shrapnel. All he remembered was the shuddering stall, the sickening lurch, then nothing.

He tried to stand again, this time managing to push himself onto his elbows. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed his eyes, bracing himself. When he opened them, his breath hitched.

A scant few feet from the mangled wreckage, a body lay inert. It was sprawled face down, the flight suit shredded and discolored, more corpse than cloth. A shock of brown hair escaped the confines of the shattered helmet. Why did it look so familiar...? He crawled closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as if wading through thick mud. He reached out a trembling hand and gently turned the body over.

He stared.

The face staring back was his own.

The dead eyes stared, wide and vacant, reflecting the harsh glare of the desert sun. His short brown hair, stiff with dried blood and grit, framed a face he knew too well. The flight suit, once pristine, now hung in tatters—the fabric snagged on thorns, stained with what he prayed was hydraulic fluid. A cold fist clenched in his gut, tighter than any G-force he'd ever pulled. The dog tags, cold against his clammy palm, confirmed the impossible: Raymond ‘RD’ Langley. This was really him.

Raymond stared at his crumpled body lying motionless amidst the wreckage, the sight both alien and disturbingly intimate. The torn flight uniform clung to his frame like a ghost of who he once was. He reached out instinctively, fingers trailing through the incorporeal air, phasing through the husk of flesh without resistance. The blood caking his forehead was dried and darkened, a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin.

A faint rustle of fabric reminded him of the seat he'd ejected from. His fingers glided over the plane's hull, the cold metal unyielding beneath his touch—a touch that seemed no more than a memory. This machine, his companion through countless skies, was reduced to this. This was the end he'd always known was coming, though he'd imagined it would hurt more. This was the first plane he’d flown in since they put him on the team, he’d miss it. No one would come out and fix it. His wife always said he loved his plane just as much as he loved her.

Lois.

Raymond knelt on the cool grass, blood trickling from a shallow cut on his hand as it reached for the photo he'd cherished for so long. Tears mingled with the scarlet droplets, staining the picture of Lois — her smile, captured forever against that sunlit fence. In that moment, her eyes seemed to twinkle as if the very stars he once soared among were nestled within them.

He’d left her... he’d promised her a dance the moment he returned from deployment. Now he wouldn’t be able to do that.

He grit his teeth, grip tightening around the photo. Surprisingly, he was able to grab it. He shoved it in his front pocket and looked over the empty battlefield. He didn’t know where he would go after this, but he wouldn’t go until he said goodbye to his wife. His beautiful Lois.

He had a long way to go, but the only thing he wanted to see last was his wife's face.

---

The walk back home was long. He walked miles without hunger and thirst to stop him, climbed into the first vehicle back home. No one could see him in this form, so he hitched a quiet ride. Soldiers hunched over, hugging the dog tags of those who hadn’t made it. No one had his, he didn’t even know if they’d search for where he crashed. It had been a spur of the moment decision, ramming his plane into the enemy so his friends wouldn’t die. He hoped they made it out.

That would’ve been the worst thing to Raymond, the silence, because he was an extrovert. He loved high-fiving and striking conversation. But now, he was fine not being visible. He wanted to just focus on his wife and pass on. Fly somewhere in the clouds.

When he reached New York, he took a taxi this neighborhood and walked the rest of the way.

The streetlights hum a lonely tune, casting a glow on the empty sidewalks. Raymond shivers, though he can’t quite feel the cold anymore. More like a memory of cold. The houses stand shoulder to shoulder, with little front yard (something he used to hate.) Suburbia. The reward for service, or so they say. He remembers the promises they made him: Safe streets. A good school district. A place to raise a family. He’d imagined pushing a stroller down these very sidewalks, his wife by his side, their laughter echoing in the crisp evening air. Now, the air is just crisp. He pauses before the steps leading to his house. The wood is weathered, paint peeling like sunburnt skin. He traces a finger along the railing, the rough texture a ghost of a sensation. He remembers the feel of her hand in his, warm and soft against his own. He remembers painting this stairway with her. They’d focus for a few minutes then dissolve into play fighting and flinging paint. In the end, it took them the entire day to do a 3 hour task.

He plucks a rose from the overgrown garden. The thorns prick his incorporeal fingers, a phantom pain. He clutches the flower, then grabs another until he had a bouquet. Why could he pick this up but not touch other things?

He raises his hand to knock, the familiar gesture a reflex he can’t quite shake. His knuckles pass through the solid wood, a disconcerting tingle spreading through his arm. What's the point of knocking? He steps through the door, phasing through it instead. The air inside is thick with the scent of lavender and her. A wave of longing washes over him, so potent it almost knocks him off his feet. The rose trembles in his hand, its crimson deepening in the dim light. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what comes next. He has to be strong. For her. He’ll figure out how to say goodbye. She deserved that from him.

He floats down the hallway, past framed photos of their life together. Their wedding day, beaming at each other. Their first Christmas in this house, wearing cozy sweaters and balancing gifts on his head. A recent snapshot of her, her smile strained, her eyes holding a depth of sorrow he knows all too well. She’d been stressed on trying for a kid, despite all their efforts. But he always promised her he’d deliver, somehow, they’d have a beautiful family.

The living room held a deceptive familiarity. Simple couch, old radio, open kitchen—Lois's touch, undeniably. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. Even now, even with everything teetering on the edge, Lois had a way of making things... right-

“Ooh~ ah, ah Johnny!”

Raymond's head snapped up, a sharp frown etching itself onto his face. That belonged to Lois. Was something wrong? Panic, cold and swift, coiled in his gut. He crossed the living room in three strides, his hand already reaching for the bedroom door.

“Fuck, Johnny! Faster!”

He froze, his knuckles white against the cheap wood. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the cheerful yellow walls of the living room blurring at the edges. Slowly, as if moving through molasses, he pushed the door open.

The sight that greeted him made his heart shatter. Lois, sprawled on their bed, beneath some... stranger. Her hair, the same hair he'd just tangled his fingers in during their picnics before his deployment, was now a tangled mess. Her lips, the ones he'd kissed a thousand times, were parted in moans.

How could she...?

The neighbor boy Johnny, a hulking wall of lumber, leaned down to purr into her ear, the edge of a devious smile creeping up at the corner of his lips. "Been fucking you for months and you’re still so fucking gorgeous. I love it," Johnny's warm breath caused Lois to squirm beneath him. He shifted his hands down to grip at her hips, moving in to–

Raymond stumbled back, each step a punch to the gut. He turned, legs pumping, a desperate flight from the scene seared into his mind. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, only run. Where to? Didn't matter. Just away. He nearly hit the lamp post as he broke into a sprint, running down the sidewalk until he simply was too shaky to continue. He couldn't be near their home anymore, not even the neighborhood. Everything reminded him of her and... what she'd done. He stumbled into an alleyway, sinking with his back against the wall and covering his face. The alley reeked of stale beer and regret. How could she do that? Was he not good enough? Had he spent too long in deployment? Was he bad in bed?

He covered his face, hands trembling, the ghost of the life he imagined fading away. This was it, wasn't it? The fear he'd carried for so long, the loneliness he’d tried to outrun. It was here, now, settling over him like a shroud. Raymond's shoulders shook. A sob escaped, then another, until he was a broken man in a broken alley, snot running down his face and eyes red-rimmed as he broke down.

He didn’t know how to deal with this, his worst fear was coming to life. He was going to pass alone. His shoulders trembled before he broke down in tears, burying his face in the alleyway.