Always On His Mind

Chapter One He was dreaming, of that he was sure. But it was one of those dreams where he felt every sensation. The heat of the fire licked up his back as though his spine was a trail of gasoline. Sharp pebbles and debris bit at the fleshy underside of his palms and nipped at the cleft of his chin. The ear-piercing screams of women beat at his eardrum like the percussive section of a marching band in a small auditorium. Then came the blood. Metallic and musty. Tinged with a burning, chemical smell. The stench gripped his gut, forcing his stomach to surrender its goods. He felt, heard, tasted, and smelled all of it. But he saw nothing. All around him was a thick, suffocating blackness. He was trapped in the darkness of his mind. Though he knew he was dreaming, he could not wake up. He could not move a limb, not even his pinky finger. Everything was bound, strapped down, and held tight. There was no escape. His senses released their hold when voices rose around him in the darkness. He knew the urgent murmurs were not a part of the dream. The voices came from the real world. The words were spoken in a foreign tongue. Harsh consonants, few vowel sounds. But he understood the meanings. "We have to move him." "It's too dangerous." The voices were feminine, but there was steel in their tone. Whoever these women were, he knew they were very brave, strong, and capable. That knowledge would’ve made another man relax. Not him. He felt honor bound to rise to their aide. The urge to reach out to them was a powerful one. He felt it was his responsibility to help them complete their mission. He got the sense that that was what he did. He completed missions, got things done. Unfortunately, he couldn't do anything at the moment. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were open? He was still bound in darkness. On the bright side, life was slowly returning to his limbs and extremities. His right pinky separated from the rest of his fingers and wiggled. His head turned a fraction to the left. He took in a deep breath, feeling his chest rise high as his lungs expanded to their full capacity. And then it appeared. A tiny light. Smaller than a pinprick. It grew to the size of a pencil tip. Then to the size of the surface of a spoon. Until, finally, it filled his eyes. His eyes were definitely open now. He was awake, let loose from the dream world and his shadowy captivity. But there wasn't much to see. The room he was in was dark. Just not the all-encompassing dark of the dream world. There were gradations of black from ebony to charcoal to slate gray. His eyes were adjusting quickly now, and he began to pick apart his surroundings. There were more than two bodies standing over him. He couldn't make them out. Their heads and faces were covered in black cloth. Only their eyes were visible. But he knew they all were women. "You are awake,” one of them said. The language she spoke switched. It was more familiar, easier on the ears to hear. Easier on his brain to understand. "We will have to move him now. It is not safe if he stays." "It is not safe if we move him." "We will not have a choice much longer. They will come for him. We cannot continue to shelter him.” "But he saved our lives. We owe him." The silence was tense. He could see the worry in the posture of one woman, the one insistent on sending him away from ... wherever he was. He saw defiance in the one who spoke up. He opened his mouth, but only a garbled sound came out. His throat was on fire. Like a blaze burning in the dry desert. "We need to send him back to his own people." "We have already sent word. No one has come. We cannot wait any longer." His people? He had people? He tried to picture who he belonged to, but his mind came up blank. Just a black slate. Not absolute darkness like the dream. Not as many gradations as this darkened room. He tried to sit up, but a pain in his shoulder prevented it. Now that he thought of it, there was pain everywhere. He let out a strangled cry. The sound was short-lived as it burned a path through his throat and over his tongue. All three women went tense. Their gazes went to the far side of the room where a tiny sliver of light escaped. That was the way out. Or the way in. He shrank from that light. But a shard found him, landing on his bottom lip. His lips trembled under the weight of the ray. Inside his mind, he felt the dream world pushing at the real world. He knew he could not let that happen. He could not let the sharp heat or the blood-curdling screams enter this world. But the ray of light was unrelenting. It moved up his face, touching his upper lip, then his nose. He knew that if it got to his eyes, he would be in trouble. The eyes were the windows into the soul after all. The women moved in front of him, blocking out the light. He breathed a sigh of relief at the narrow escape. But the reprieve was short-lived. Movement sounded from the crack where the light intruded. The other two women stepped in front of him as well. The sight of the protective barrier in front of him kicked him into action. It should be him standing in front of them. But he couldn’t rise. The pain in his limbs prevented it. Even though he was still lying down, he wanted to shout at the women to get behind him. He wanted to rise from the bed to protect them. This was all wrong. He might not know much, but he knew that was his duty; to protect. Before he could get any words out, the sliver of light grew. It invaded the room, spreading across the floor and taking up stations in the corners. And then they were inside. Large men carrying guns burst into the room. He wasn’t sure how many. They filled the entire space. The women gasped. But just as soon as they gasped, relief seemed to rush through the room. One woman put her hand to her chest and began chanting in that harsh language. Another sank to her knees and bowed, beginning a prayer of gratitude. The third, the one who had fiercely tried to protect him, stepped forward. One of the gun-toting men peered around her. He had dark hair and dark eyes. He was covered in tan clothing that looked familiar. The way the man looked him over, with relief, and gratitude and guilt, tugged at a memory in the darkness of his mind. "Thank God, we found you, Private Cartwright."