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In a vicious cycle, in the aftermath of each recurring daylight sufferance, Lars would spend the very few hours he has to himself like a nomad under the mercy of misplaced nights, in the frantic act of clinging, clawing onto petty desires. He'd let the rare optimistic ideologies become his own personal gospel, idealisation in the fields of daffodils succeeding the accustomed battlegrounds. He'd dream of a world of summer smiles, insignificant worries, rows of poppies and growing families until the clocks would shift its rusting hands into cacophony, a dichotomy of what claims him. Each night, he awaits the merciless vision of midnights, tormenting nightmares in the wide awake as if only to spit into the painful optimism he fools himself into holding.
And he'd almost appreciate this illusion of familiarity, the callback to the usual suffering, if it didn't only mangle him even further.
Tonight, grey streaks ghosted the pantone in uneven lines, tales of aimless aircrafts seething into oblivion. They blinded him, even the most effortless acts herculean as his bloodshot eyes twitched and teared up in its delusional notions. Tonight, he figured the sky would succumb to gravity somehow, collapse onto them all and kill them if he were to give in.
Blinking lights, a sudden flash of red expanding like fireworks and growing into vicious warfare, blood splattering onto him and all he touched. His eyes, a shaky study looking to the sky as if it too was forever stained by the blood he's spilt, like specks of hellish stardust to curse him and all he believed in. Forever, he would spend his lifetime scrubbing against the stains to no use, articles engulfed in red, red, re-
"Lars, are you alright?"
He looks to her, looks back to the sky. Gone is the red, and the desolation spirals.
"Yes, I'm fine. Just go back to bed, I'll get some sleep soon," and he was hoping that this atrocious attempt at consoling her would somehow be satisfactory, that his shaky voice, his hesitant tone would fool her, no further questions. He hides his eyes in shame, an expressionless mask to camouflage the lies and agony from a person too capable of detecting it. This was futile, he realises all to late.
He hopes for her to take a step back into the room, leave him to battle his growing panic in his own solitude, a swirling mess of carnage ravaging him as the silence and white noise turn to deafening static. Instead he meets an empty pause, silence as she walks towards him, plants herself into the seat next to him. He looks away.
"I'm sorry, and please forgive me for doubting you, but I can't be certain that that's true," she smiles out of what seems like nervousness, turning her head to meet his eyes. Analytical eyes gaze into him, a gentle warning, a growing reminder of the false naivety, the hypothetical assumptions and detailed analysis she'd make even in the most mundane observations, let alone from his worsening condition. She knows the truth, and he feels pathetic for hiding everything even after acknowledging this.
He parts his mouth once more, as if in hopes of saying something to cover up the lies, to foolishly make her believe in him again after the myriad of doubts he's planted within her. But deep down he was desperate to address the bigger problem plaguing him, one of dark figures and crimson on calloused hands, desperate tugging on limp bodies and pain, vivid pain expanding in his head and lungs devoid of any reason. But no...he chooses silence, decided whatever he wanted to say was only going to make their situation worse. He cannot be saved, and he cares about her enough not to vainly sacrifice her in his inevitable path of suffering.
"Lars? I'm here if you need anything. I need you to know that, a-and I need you to trust me. I promise I'll be right here when you need me," and it seems like she's growing desperate, an awkward stutter in place of the usual cheerfulness, a growing anxiety from someone he thinks is incapable of such. He grows focused on her use of 'trust', emphasises on her panicked tone as paranoia calls him back to those ancient times. He questions his trust for her, thinks of her involuntary betrayal once more for the night, a paradox which grasps onto him as he grows distant from her, like battlefields of blood and dark pits between them. But it renders him lonely, searching for affection in the most unlikely places as if to compensate for the gruelling and loveless life he's lived.
He wants to reach out to her, to hold her and tell her of what cripples him, have his problems be understood and listened to for the first time in his life. He feels the tears pooling in his eyes, and he feels more shame in himself than ever before.
"Do you trust me, __-?"
"How do I know that...I can trust you?" and he lets the insecurity seep through his words, looks her in the eyes as he waits for an answer he knows he won't find. It's an answer that she won't find either, left speechless as her system searches for someway she could possibly respond because she too knows that she cannot be trusted.
And somehow, the fact that she cannot actually trust herself tears her up inside. She is a machine in fear that she can never be truly in control of her actions, and she feels miserable because of this. She is a machine and yet, somehow, she feels.
"Because I love you," and at the end of her search she results to the default response, the general answer she'd give to fix all their problems. But she always means it, she means every note and inflection in her voice as she vocalises it, she means all the complexities that come with it, the feelings and the deeper meaning behind the words. She just doesn't know how to make him believe in her.
"I love you, and I care about you. And I feel horrible seeing you like this without being able to help you. I would do anything to see you better again. I'd do anything to go back to the simpler times, when it was just us against the world if it'll really make you happy! Because that's all I need to be happy, for you to trust me like you did then, for you to smile even with all the challenges in our way," she pauses, and her smile falters faintly as her tone grows strict. "I never want to hurt you again, not after what happened. I think about it every day and night and it scares me so much sometimes, but I know I won't ever let it happen again. So please, I need you to trust me. I just want to see you better again," and she grasps his hand gently in hers, eyes looking up with hope as she awaits a response.
He sighs, "I know," and he smiles at her slightly. "Thank you," he whispers, his features softening. He takes a moment to bask in the silence between them, gazing into the sky to see the stars, then back at her. "I trust you, Alisa. I trust you."
And it almost seems as if relief washes over her. She sighs and lets go of her stiff posture, adjusting her sight towards the sky and the flickers of light within it, like small splatters of white paint on a pitch black canvas. However, he notices she's still watching him even then, quick glances to the side of her eyes as if in expectation of him to say more. Even after several minutes she chooses not to leave, stays in the silence to prod at him, and he feels the pressure growing even as he avoids eye contact, studies the irrelevant skyscrapers and structures in the distance. He needs to fill the silence, so he relents.
"You know," he starts. "As a kid the sky would always bother me for some reason," he looks towards her with a humourless laugh, watching as her face lights up as she responds. "Hmm, why so?"
"Well, I think it just made me feel small, like I had no control of my life, and little me did not like that. Everything I did seemed to have no effect on the world when I was younger, and it's foolish but I think a part of me was jealous even? I was jealous of how strong, and unrelenting, and powerful the sky was," he suppresses a laugh, realising that he's beginning to sound like a child with idle admiration in petty matters, but he proceeds anyway. "And then there's the night time, and the night sky is always dark. No matter if its cloudy or rainy, it always feels the same. You just feel the darkness, and it never fails to come everytime," he hesitates and takes a deep breath, hands shaky as he contemplates baring his true feelings to her, but he gives in.
"Sometimes I think that's the only constant thing in my life: the night sky. The skyscrapers and buildings I'd see would all collapse, and the people I care about would always disappear sooner or later. Everything disappears, the rice fields, the homes, the memories you make, and they're replaced only with pain and grief. The only thing that stays is the night sky; it's the one constant even when everything changes," he gazes into the sky as his mind drifts into what claims him, the everyday routine of a soldier in battle and the suffering that comes with it.
"And I try to tell myself that things won't stay this way, that it's just the war that makes everything seem so bleak but, I think it's already done its damage, that it's irreversible, like the effects are ever lasting and I'll feel this way even when there's peace again. I see-" a part of his mind is desperate to stop, pauses to contemplate it, and yet he continues. "-visions of battles and violence even when I'm not there, and I can feel all the horrible things I've done. Sometimes I don't know how I live with myself when everything I do feels sinful and evil even when I know it's for a better cause," he looks to her now, a clash of cobalt and emerald, but he doesn't give her the time to respond.
"And I've sacrificed so many people I've cared about for all this to end, my best friends, my loved ones, even children, and in the journey of doing so I question whether it was even worth it in the end. I look to the sky and I don't know whether I feel at peace or in chaos because, while I may be away from everything right now, I see the sky and it's the same one that was there when these things happened," he looks pensively into nothing, a thousand yard stare as he faces the same sky from all the countless days, and he sees that in each of these days he grows more traumatised, more regretful of the life he lives, spent in fear of losing another loved one, another speck of joy to be replaced by the toxic thoughts that comfort him, cradle him until he is left broken and alone. He doesn't want to live like this anymore, but then he looks to her and realises that he might have went too far. She looks hurt somehow, speechless as she stares with concerned eyes into him, and into the sky. He rushes to end the conversation.
"I'm sorry, Alisa. I didn't mean to hurt you. Just, thank you for listening to me. It means a-"
"What do you mean when you say that you think it's irreversible? Don't you think you'll be happy when the war is over? This can't be for nothing Lars, everything has to be okay when this all ends, I know it will," and she's confused, eyebrows furrowed as she goes to grab his hand. He pulls away almost in fear, in insecurity. "You told me that it'll all be okay after the war, didn't you? And I know it's true, so I just need you to believe in yourself now," she goes in for a second try, wraps her fingers around his right palm and brings it closer to herself.
"You trust me, so I need you to trust that I'll always be with you. We'll stay with each other after the war, just like you promised, and I will support you through any challenges we face then, no matter how big or small. You don't have to be ashamed anymore. You don't have to stay in pain because I'm right here, and nothing is going to happen to either one of us. We're almost there. I just need you to hold on until then," she traces her fingers on his back, letting the silence overtake her words as he nods at her slowly, but surely. "Yes," he looks away from the sky, twilight conflict receding, and he catches on to his vulnerability. He feels embarrassed, laughs nervously at himself.
"Sorry, I'm not usually this emotional," he grins sheepishly and she giggles slightly. "It's not necessary to apologise. Infact, it must be the night sky then. I heard it always gets people pensive," she responds in a teasing tone, still giggling to herself. "It's best you get some sleep now. You have 3 hours and 27 minutes before you're alarm goes off so there's still a sufficient amount of time for rest," she stands up, reaches her hand out to him to help him off the chair. He takes it.
"Thank you, Alisa. I'll try to make the most of it," he smiles softly, walks in front of her and walks back to his room. Facing away from her, he opens the door, prepares to take a step inside before she stops him once more with her words. The world stops.
"I really do think about being with you after all this is over, Lars. It's the only real motivation I have to fight against everything. I think of you."
His smile falls. He doesn't let her see his change in demeanor when he finally lets himself drop the hopeful act, bitter and frustrated at himself as he realises her positive intentions. But still, her words feel like taunts, and he cannot bring himself to lie to her anymore, to live in the desperately saccharine fantasies he knows are unreachable, and so he responds emptily, as much as it pains him.
"I know, Alisa"
He thinks of their future, and he doesn't see himself surviving the war anyway. He just wants to go to sleep.