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It was still worst at night. During the day, with Jody and his close friends, he was usually alright- at least for the most part. There were still triggers that brought flashbacks, shaking, his heart pounding in his ears; but those episodes were becoming less frequent.
But long after sunset, when Jody had gone to sleep and everything was still, that was where the memories lived.
Every night, he watched the shadows the railing above his bunk cast, and tried not to see them as bars stretching out in front of him. He was hyper-aware of every sound and shift, ready to be hurt again, just waiting to be hit or kicked, or for a cold knife to press into his skin.
Every night, he tried to resist, but, as if acting on its own, his hand slipped under his shirt, his fingers tracing every letter of the words scared forever into his chest. His mind always wandered to the ones he couldn’t reach as easily, that covered his entire back, shoulders to hips.
Back in Algeria, the guards would often force him to stay awake, flooding the prison with harsh light, or creating terrible noise. He used to long for the reprieve of silence- now it was one of the things he dreaded most of all.
He shut his eyes against the assault of memories.
He was not well, not by a long shot. He wasn’t sure he could ever truly, fully, be again. Every day, the weight of what he’d been through followed him.
But it was starting to feel lighter- not always, but often. He was getting stronger again, that helped. Though his body had recovered more quickly than his mind, eating properly had seemed to do his mental health some good as well.
His relationship with Jody was positively wonderful, it was a type of love he had long since given up on finding; gentle, supportive, understanding to a fault. And she wanted exactly the same type of relationship as he did, they were perfectly compatible. He adored her, and though he sometimes felt guilty to not be able to offer her as much support as she constantly gave him, she always reassured him. She had told him a dozen times that everyone goes through times of needing more help, that she had chosen him, and that she always wanted to be the one he knew he could lean on.
Sam and Five had both become good friends. Sam was so positive and kind, he reached out again and again even when Tom had been unsure whether he deserved connections. Though they only spent time together occasionally, he thoroughly enjoyed the radio operator’s company. Tom found it especially amusing how often deadpan humor confused Sam, and had begun to make a habit of drawing the bit out to see how long it took for him to catch on. It reminded him of some of his old friendships… it reminded him of a dear family member…
Then there was Five. The two of them had become fast friends; after all, Five too was traumatized, riddled with guilt, and mentally ill. Their conversations were easy. He sometimes found himself telling them things he hadn’t known he was ready to share at all. And they had expressed that he, in turn, had helped them. He had PTSD, they had Moonchild Syndrome (though, truth be told, considering some of the things they had told him, he had to wonder wether PTSD might not be a factor for them as well), but they had some symptoms in common, and his advice for living with it, had evidentially helped them. It felt strangely healing to be able to help in that way, it made him feel like a living human again.
His eyes panned over the room he was in, a dorm room with three runners who had voluntarily invited him to share their space. It had been well over half a year since he had slept locked in a room alone. Abel really was beginning to feel like home.
One person was missing, one of the most important people. He knew he’d have to wait and see, just hope that she’d return,
alive and well, but it was difficult. They had been apart for so long, and he once would’ve said he hated her, but, deep down, it never would’ve been true. He loved her and always had; as a child, he had looked up to her like most younger siblings did to the older ones, he had practically idolized her. He knew that their relationship was broken. And that it had been his fault. But, naive as the hope may be, a small part of him just longed to have his big sister back.
He openly held out hope that she’d return, but, his secret, stupid, impossible wish, he still held onto, was that she’d one day be able to forgive him. He knew he’d have to work for it, but he wanted someday to talk to her, and just for a moment, forget that they were no longer the little boy and girl who had become eachother’s best friend when their family moved too much to be close with anyone else. When he was in high school, both their parents dead, staying with a family friend, her moving to go to college had felt like abandonment. Their bond had healed, no lasting damage done… until Algeria.
The one thing he wanted most now was something he probably could never have, not truly.
He wanted his sister back in his life.