He dreams of it now, the way the fire once burned inside of him, an ache for something other than revenge.
Even before the bullet took a shortcut through his gray matter, the warm sizzle desire had been a distant memory, taken from him by sleepless nights spent crouched shivering in the dark while shells exploded over his head, a coil of fear winding tighter and growing larger with each passing day.
Back in the real world, away from threat of death constantly hanging over his head. Away from the responsibility to his men, those boys he'd meant to keep alive, their hoarse voices calling out his name. Back home… the tension had disappeared, it's absence leaving him hollow, nothing rushing back in to replace it, apathy and exhaustion fighting for prominence over the love for his family.
It's a regret now, a constant regret swimming in and out of his brain in the hours before daylight. He’d been too tired then, too apathetic to lean into a soft caress, to respond to a warm sigh against the back of his neck. He tries not to live in the past. It would be too easy to slip through the veil of memory and just stay there, watching her soft brown eyes as they filled up with angry tears, the downward turn of her mouth when she got really angry and stopped yelling.
Maria had honey blonde hair, a warm color tinged with the faintest bit of red, darker in the winter, silken as it slipped through his fingers. The sense memories are the hardest not to trip into. Christ, maybe he just has a thing for blondes. He shakes the thought away before his traitorous brain can begin to work on it.
Sometimes they get conflated in his dreams, and it makes him angry the way the wavy strawberry tresses suddenly turn into a waterfall of icy coolness, hair like starlight falling across his chest, big blue eyes looking up at him through a past they never inhabited. Those are the mornings he hits the bag a little too hard, bruising his hastily wrapped knuckles, the muscles in his shoulders screaming in protest. Pausing only to drink his coffee before it's had time to cool off, relishing the burn down the back of his throat. He beats the swinging canvas until all he can see is red, the blood of his enemies spilling across his vision, until all he can taste is anger. It's better than the alternative.
It's always worse after he visits Karen, the scent of cinnamon flavored coffee somehow clinging to his shirt hours after he's left her apartment. Conscious, he barely notices it, but in his dreams the world turns into a surreal movie where he's back at home, sitting in his sunlit kitchen at a neatly set table, Maria smiling down at him as she flips a hot-cake onto his plate. He barely has time to hook at arm around her waist to pull her close, before she starts to change, her petite form dancing away from him into long graceful legs and willowy arms. The stir of desire is unexpected and confusing, catching him off guard.
He snaps awake, this time springing from the mattress full of anger and shame. The mirror in his bathroom in shattered in his sink, bloody shards of glass winking at him as the water runs down over them. He stops dropping by the little apartment with all the bullets in its walls.
It's quiet after that, slumberland turning back into a formless void, cold along the edges. Frost begins to seep into his fingers, and he barely feels the trigger anymore, watching with only a hint of satisfaction as his targets go down each night. Their bodies litter the city, and still each night he feels the need to stay out later and later.
He hasn't slept in days, fatigue pulling down at the corners of his eyes, clutching a cheap paper cup of coffee in one hand. Rooftops are his favorite place to be at dawn, watching the sun peek up over the horizon, yellow tinged with red, a warmth he can no longer feel falling on his face.
“What the hell are you doing Frank?”
There is no whisper of footsteps to accompany the voice, just a disappointed sigh. He turns around to face her, ready for judgment, ready for the end. “Waiting for you.”
Never in their life together has he seen such a look of sadness, the crystalline tears pooling in her dark eyes, the absolute grief. “I'm dead, Frank.”
He nods, looking down at his hands as if he expects them to be covered in her blood. They're clean, a few bruises across the knuckles, but otherwise unscathed. He can't look at her, not at her gently rounded hips or delicate wrists, or even the little half moons of her fingernails. He's too afraid she'll change, and then he'll have to do something drastic, like throw himself off the building.
She touches him, her hand warm against the stubble on his cheek, and he sucks in a sharp breath. This isn't something that happens in his dreams, the firm feel of her flesh against his. Gently, she kisses him, pulling away to gaze up at him. “Frank, none of this is gonna bring me back. Leave atonement to the altar boy.”
His heart’s in his throat. It's like the day he woke up in the hospital again, loss stinging fresh like salt in a wound. It tears through him. Arms around her, he croaks out, “Take me with you.”
Her head’s resting gently under his chin now, hair warm and soft against the hammering pulse at his throat. “I can't, Frank. You're not dead. It's okay to live. I promise.”
He jerks awake painfully, coffee cup falling from his fingers and spilling out over the tar. The sun is a good ways past the tips of the buildings on the horizon, sky clear blue, bright yellow light landing on everything.
His burner vibrates in his pocket, it buzzing sound unusually loud amid the quiet of the rooftop. It’s a text message. I hope you’re alright.
His finger twitches against the screen. It’s just like Karen to send a message out into the ether, no matter how unlikely that he’d receive it. He didn’t realize he’d been waiting to throw the damn phone away. The hollow space inside of him, well, it still echoes, but there's something growing down in the dark, something warm and alive burns in his belly. It's already beginning to seep into his bones, and for the first time since his life ended, he doesn't feel the cold.
He taps out a quick message, shouldering his bag and turning to leave.