Shadow Of The Past Trilogy ∞ THE DISPLACED

71 ∞ the (un)haunted I

[Note: Rated PG-15 for disturbing war topics in the first scene.]

Day Seventeen ∞ After midnight, Sunday morning

IT DIDN'T MATTER to Danny that his ninety-minute watch stretched into a few hours. He sat in the armchair with his shoulder turned in a half-hearted attempt to not listen, to not look. He didn't want to be in the same room as that man but he wasn't going to leave Mickmi alone with him. He didn't want to see or hear what was going on but he had to make sure she remained safe.

He most certainly did not want to feel sorry for the man who'd almost killed him twice, who insulted him at every single opportunity, yet the more Danny picked up from Atlas's rambling, the more he pitied him.

Danny found it difficult to believe that a man like him could be reduced to such an extreme low. Was that what they called 'shell-shocked'? The breakdown of a man until he turned into a blabbering idiot?

He looked at them out of the corner of his eye. Atlas still leaned on Mickmi's shoulder, shaking, hanging onto her for dear life. Mickmi seemed oblivious to the weight on her. She kept her voice soft in a sing-song tone, prompting him to reveal another burden, to clarify another nightmare, while she placed her palms on him to impart her healing energy. His words came ragged, sometimes disjointed, sometimes gushing as if he couldn't get them out of his mouth fast enough.

It was sickening.

Danny shook himself and turned away with what he'd learned so far, the causes of the man's crisis. He'd never be ashamed to say that he was glad he didn't have to experience any of that himself. 

Going to war.

Doing and seeing things that no man could be immune to.

The depths of a guilty conscience...

Of torturing women and unarmed men for the location of opiate distribution points and Soviet contacts. Of killing young boys and girls armed by the Viet Cong to kill American soldiers. Of witnessing South Vietnamese hired by the CIA for intelligence gathering rape sex slaves. Of murdering one of those allied operatives for killing a twelve-year-old girl after raping her.

And the list of horrors went on.

Each with its own face.

Until Atlas broke off with his customary expletives and cried out for Melanie, clawing at his head. Mickmi wrapped her arm around him and held him tight, held his head until whatever tormented him subsided.

"Atlas," Mickmi said, "speak – and release her... Just like the others, she shall recede from you."

"I can't – do it anymore— I – can't..."

"Release her to me, Atlas... that you may remember without impact."

He breathed heavily several times. "It was," he started, lifting a trembling hand to his head, "it was after an assault... a Viet Cong village... We had to assess the damage. We – checked everywhere... I had to check a hut... still burning and—" He gasped for a ragged breath, "Oh my God—it's a mother, she's— Her face, I can still see her face—she was... burned – alive... Her face is... charred— And her... it was in her arms... she tried to protect it and she – she can't, she— Oh God..."

Danny shook himself against the image attempting to form in his mind. How many years had Atlas been living with those nightmares? Danny swallowed. He just hoped that hearing Atlas describe them wouldn't make them contagious.