#i gave him a depressing backstory because you cant tell me he wouldn't have past trauma

[hebuiltfive]

Haunted

What do you do when you can't get back to sleep because your anxiety decides to kick in and make you panic at 4am for now reason, keeping you awake? You put that pain onto a fictional character, of course. This might have the potential to go somewhere further, maybe? I've been wanting to write from this guy's perspective for a while. If a story forms, I might continue it. Anyway, enjoy. I'm going to try and get an hour of sleep in now because God, I am tired.

He couldn't sleep. Again. It was becoming tiresome in itself. No matter how much he tried, that peaceful slumber remained just out of reach. Every time he closed his eyes, the panic set in. At least when he was awake he could ground himself to the here and now; he was in his room where it was familiar and warm and not out on that disastrous mission. When his eyelids shut, however... that was a different story entirely. Shades of crimson tainted the darkness. It swirled and melded with the inky black, sometimes blending seamlessly and sometimes dripping in stark contrast. A reminder of the pain, the loss and the crippling agony he felt by being the sole survivor, the only one who managed to live.

It wasn't fair that he was allowed a second chance whilst all of his comrades didn't. His therapist (mandated by the Powers That Be if he wanted to keep his position) told him it was "survivor's guilt". Maybe it was. He didn't care. A fancy name and symptom list didn't stop the memories from plaguing him in those tender hours of the night. It didn't stop the pain he felt when he swore he could feel his old Captain's hand in his, bloody and dying and cold, even through his gloves.

It hadn't been the first time he'd witnessed death, yet the moment had been horrifying. There had been nothing to do but wait until the man he had once called a friend took his last, shallow breath. His voice, once a voice that held such authority, that had given commands with such gusto, had become feeble and quiet. Scared. There had been whispered requests of a dying man. He'd allowed them to become broken promises because the thought of seeing the pregnant wife of his superior officer, to tell her the news and his last message, had been too painful for him in those following weeks. The phantom hand in his squeezed. Whether it was telling him he was a coward or whether it was in forgiveness, he didn't know. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

He rolled over onto his side. Why was he remembering everything in such vivid detail? It had been years. Hadn't the ghosts of his past grown tired of all the haunting? Occasionally the human brain was a cursed thing. All he wanted was the sweet respite that sleep offered, even with the knowledge that nightmares were common after he'd endured these levels of panic. Right now, he didn't care for them. He'd endure those images if it meant he could get even a wink of sleep. He had a mission to run tomorrow. He couldn't afford to be drowsy. He pulled the duvet up closer to his chin, inhaled deeply and held his breath for a moment. In the still and quiet of his room, the pounding throb of his heart was deafening in his ears. He exhaled and repeated. Never had he felt so pathetic. He knew they were only memories and yet...

Another exhale and he closed his eyes again. This time, at least, pure, untainted blackness greeted him. It was a welcomed change from the blood infested image and, being worried he'd lose that small blessing, Rigby kept those eyelids tightly shut. Criminals he could easily face down, but demons? His demons? They were one battle in an endless war he hadn't yet defeated.