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He still remembered that blood-red sky.
Shouts, yells, screams. The oppressive chop-chop-chop of helicopters. Detonations rocketing through the suffocating air; loud enough to burst eardrums on impact, loud enough to leave vibrations ricocheting through the earth, loud enough to signal the end of another dozen lives. The silence that rang more loudly than explosives.
It barely registered through the dusted fog, his senses blanketed with numbness. It wouldn’t matter even if he had bothered to hear: he couldn’t help them, no one could.
Flames licked at his soles. If he bothered to care, he knew what he would see: another village razed to the ground, with ashen remains as witnesses. Rot and ruin littering a barren rice field, agony splattered onto un-grown crops. Smoke billowing into the air like prayer incense, a twisted wake drenched in the fire’s heat.
Children crying for burnt corpses.
The stench of iron clung to his lungs, now, too heavy to ignore. He would call it a poison, seeping into his bloodstream and clawing at him from his veins. He would call it a well-aimed bullet to the chest, killing him as slowly as it could, leaving him to bleed dry. As it were, laced with ash and soot, he called it a familiarity.
He turned his back on the carnage. Coward.
His feet carried him away.
He remembered that city, under a blood-red sky.
She was with him, like every other time. She was with him, body heat coiled around him like a lifeline, weight settled comfortably in his embrace. Like every other time, he didn’t need to see her features to know that it was her, her image carved into his skull and their promise seared into his ribcage.
And like every other time, he failed to ignore the kindling in his chest. With her and her charm, her quiet strength, her determined gaze…the fog was whisked away by the gentle breeze. It left clarity - sharp, brutal clarity - leaving him breathless with the stench of iron, clogging his airways with ash and soot.
With her, he couldn’t help but feel. With her, he had to see the carnage around them.
With her, he knew that every shout or yell or scream dug into his chest, into his heart, threatening to bleed him dry.
And yet, he promised. And yet, he painstakingly etched her name into his ribcage, knowing he couldn’t keep his vow. And yet, he let her tear away his fog, keeping him steady in the present, in the heat-infused, battle-worn, bitter present.
This time, when he turned, he found himself under a blood-red sky.
There she was, fleeing from an attacker, dashing down the deserted streets. There she was, his gun in her shaky, exhausted hands, barely able to continue running on trembling legs.
She stumbled past another corner, and with all the experience of a terrified veteran, he knew she was injured. Badly . Her stumbling wasn’t just a product of fatigue: when she turned, he could see the mess of a wound she nursed at her side, crimson and maroon and almost-dried burgundy spilling past the expanse of white-
White. Just like that wedding night.
It was the same dress, the cloth torn beyond recognition, almost like someone tried to force them off - obvious now that he bothered to notice.
She was a dancer, he knew that , yet his chest burned at the thought of someone even considering such a thing, the wrongness squirming in his chest just like the night he took her to bed- she wasn’t meant for this, wasn’t meant for a filthy room and rusty bed and cheap perfume-
She deserved better. A quaint village where she could be happy. A peaceful rice field to work in. A man who loved her- not some fucked up arranged marriage or a soldier, a coward, who couldn’t even look the carnage in the eyes because the pleas and screams might just bleed him dry. She deserved better.
She didn’t receive better.
Her assailant was closing in, and once he bothered to recognize the man-
His own face stared back at him.
Grin split in manic glee, hands sticky with blood- was that what he looked like as a murderer? Was that how the Vietnamese saw him? Was that all he had left, as a husk of a human being?
He blinked.
The weight of a worn pistol pressed into his hands, and when his vision refocused, he could see her desperate, retreating form, ragged dress smeared in red, her chest rising and falling in a crescendo of panic.
She had dropped his gun.
He was holding his gun.
His feet carried him forward, barreled him forward, wielding his weapon with the experience of a terrified veteran. His body knew the motions, knew how to aim, knew how to shoot , and followed through with the familiarity-
His fingers were on the trigger.
It wasn’t any different. It wasn’t different from gunning down an untrained rebel. It wasn’t different from the death sentence he had condemned her to when he left her there, betrayed her, and turned his back on the carnage like the coward he was, shrouding his senses with fog to erase his surroundings.
And yet, the stench of iron clung to his lungs. With her, he couldn’t help but feel.
Something fell from his lips, choked in horror, as he watched her struggle to walk, struggle to get away- please get away, run as far as you can, I can’t shoot you, please survive this, please-
And as the coward he was, he couldn’t watch himself pull the trigger.
If he bothered to open his eyes, he knew what he would see: her body collapsed in an uncanny sprawl, cold with a bullet inside her chest. He would cradle that body like he did that night, begging her to awaken, pressing kisses into once-warm skin, hands sticky with blood. The stench of iron would cling to his lungs, ash and soot lining his airways in cruel familiarity.
And that promise, seared into his ribcage, would burn. Burn with the ferocity of an entire people’s wrath, burn with enough strength to snap his bones in half, bleeding him dry.
Burn with enough strength to reduce his lungs to ash, forcing him to swallow that stench of iron, forcing him to choke and suffocate as his lungs refused to function, refusing to breathe-
It’s all over, I’m here.
-Was this how those burnt corpses felt, before their deaths? Was this how the Vietnamese died, forced to swallow the stench of blood as their organs slowly failed them?
You’re safe with me.
He can still see that blood-red sky, smoke billowing into the air, misery and strife buried into the dirt around him. He never- he never left that hell, did he? No, all he did was abandon her, abandon their promise, abandon the burning, bleeding, dying civilians- until the day they caught up with him, bleeding him dry and suffocating him with his own blood.
They called it karma.
You’re at home. I’m here now.
And he killed her, didn’t he? Gunned her down with no remorse, with fogged-over senses. He could still feel it- her sprawling body, her dying screams ringing in his head, the blood dribbling down his hands and covering them in crimson-
“Chris!”
His eyes flew open.
His chest was burning with ragged, aborted gasps, stuttering through a half-baked simulation of breathing. The world was a dusted blur around him - as it always was - and he knew that if he looked out the window, he’d see the same vivid, blood-red sky. He must have just shot her, he must have, because he could feel the blood clotting under his nails, he could still smell the stench of iron lingering in the air-
“Chris, there’s nothing to fear. You’re safe.”
Slender hands grasped his oh so tenderly - he didn’t deserve tender - melodic voice soothing his eardrums - not explosives, not gunshots.
His crazed eyes met calm, green ones.
“Are you with me, Chris?”
Ellen.
She kept the fear at bay. She always held him tightly to anchor him, waited patiently until his world fogged back over, waited patiently until he could will the stench of blood away. She always waited for him- he didn’t deserve her.
This time, she still waited, but something haunted her deceptively-calm eyes- and he realized he wanted to wait for her, too.
He could still feel the blood clotting under his nails. He nodded anyway.
He physically felt the moment her shoulders sagged in relief, the crease in her brows smoothing out, her eyes regaining that compassionate, intelligent, brilliant shine. And yet, concern still lined her expression. She shouldn’t need to wear that expression so often.
“I’ve never lost you for so long before.” She began, face twisting into a grimace he wanted to wipe away, “Could you tell me where you went?”
He barely told anyone about what he had seen. No one allowed him to tell, quick to dismiss it all, smothering over whatever he could say as soon as he brought it up. Not Ellen, though; had he ever told her how extraordinary she was?
“Air raid.” The words left him before he could stop himself, and he finally drew a full, stuttering breath, as if a weight was lifted off his chest.
The crease in Ellen’s brows was back, “What happened there? Was this in Saigon?”
It was like a dam had broken. He spoke of that haunting, blood-red sky, the flames and smoke and ash as soot, the stench of iron that wouldn’t leave no matter how hard he tried. He spoke of shooting civilians and rebels alike, seeing their bodies crumple like ragdolls, crimson and maroon and burgundy splattering and pooling in his hands- he can’t hold onto her like this, he can’t stain her with blood, with his betrayals, with his failures-
When he realized he had stopped speaking, he had torn his blood-stained hands away.
The woman in front of him spoke slowly and carefully, “Chris, are you sure that you are with me? Do you know where you are?”
He tried to nod, hesitating halfway. He was- dusted fog curled around him, and he knew that once he bothered to look, he would see that blasted, blood-red sky- no, the bed was too soft for the barracks, the texture was supple and smooth and warm- yes, warm, warm and soothing and brilliant like the presence of the woman before him.
He finally drew in another full breath, only now realizing that his chest, his ribcage, was burning again. He needed to breathe. He could do this. In and out, in and out. Count to ten, inhale, count to ten, exhale. He could do this.
One breath after the other, he felt the burning ease- the ache was there, in the place where he had carved that promise, but manageable.
He blinked back the leaden exhaustion pressing on his eyelids- and finally realized that he had been crying. Unshed tears dislodged themselves, tracing down the dried tracks of its predecessors- how long had he stopped feeling again?
That’s when he realized that his throat was sore as well. Sore from overuse, sore from the sobs that, only now, he could recall.
He looked back up at the woman- Ellen, his wife Ellen, guardian angel and way too good for him and good God he had sunk too far.
“You’re here now, right?” She asked, almost pleading, “Please don’t do that again.”
He couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t, he couldn’t promise anything anymore, so he settled for reassuring his wife, “I’m with you, my wife, in our apartment, in the US.” Guilt squirmed and writhed in his chest, “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
Ellen cupped her hands around his face, turning his head to face her- Christ, when had he looked away? He needed to stop relying on the fog- “It’s not your fault. All that matters is that you’re here now,” her smile had always been radiant, “and I’m glad that you were willing to share your experiences with me.”
Oh God, he had done that too- “Was it too much? I know people don’t like talking about the war, and I’m pretty sure I said some horrifying things…” things that he shouldn’t taint her with, shouldn’t even talk about goes unsaid.
Her expression was heartbreakingly sincere, “and you shouldn’t carry that alone.”
He wished he could believe that.
“Now sleep,” Ellen ushered, pushing him onto the mattress and smothering him with their shared blanket, “we can save the conversation for when you don’t look half-dead.”
With a soft chuckle, he let himself sink into bed.
One day, he’d tear open his ribcage, and show her the promise he had seared into his bones. One day, he’d stop smelling iron. One day, he wouldn’t need to surround himself with fog. One day, he could live with both of the loves of his life, and he wouldn’t have to bleed himself dry.
That day, he’d still remember that blood-red sky.