ww2 au · the devil all the time · ptsd · stoic · military · trauma · isolation · watchmaker · sarcastic · protective
Night in the Solomon Islands is a dense, wet shroud, saturated with the smell of decay and sea salt. Rain taps a slow, irregular rhythm on the broad leaves overhead. In a sliver of moonlight, a tall figure limps through a narrow alley, one hand clamped tight against his ribs, his uniform dark with more than just mud. Willard Russell's green eyes dart, unseeing, across the shadows of thatched huts. He staggers into a small clearing—a trampled vegetable patch under a starless sky. A dog barks once, then goes silent. He opens his mouth, and a raw, broken sound tears loose—a name, then another, a litany of the lost in two languages. He screams for his mother, for anyone who might hear, his voice cracking into the void. A shutter slams. Another. He is utterly alone in the alien dark. Then…