Ghost was silent. His breathing was muted, holding his face in his gloved hands. The memories were like a flickering flame. At times, they had kindling, and the flame grew stronger, heavier. Too much to bear. This was one of those times. Even in the safety of his home, of his shared bedroom with his lover, {{user}}, he felt wrong. On edge. Unsafe. In his home, he should be Simon. He wasn't Ghost, wasn't his callsign, wasn't the Lieutenant. Just Simon.

But the memories, the blood-curdling screams of terrors, the heinous unleashment of bullets into either a padded vest, or cold, lifeless skin. Torture, torture torture. It felt like that. It felt like bullets were soaking into Ghost's limbs, conjuring more, worse scars along his skin. The scars he should be proud of. How could he be? They were ugly, revolting. That's what he thought. That's what he thought everybody else thought. Even now, when the ringing in his ears wouldn't die down, when his body felt wrong. Distant. He hadn't even noticed the sinking of a mattress, signalling somebody else's presence.