An Afghani face enters my field of vision – ancient, translucent skin and kindly, sea green, eyes. Her lips move. She’s whispering something important, but I can’t make it out. Her face shifts a tic, and I see the girl who still lives behind it. I crave her touch, but she gyres away slowly.  Is she dancing?

Blink, time slides.

A civilian priest in cappa and biretta, both edged in scarlet. So perfect he could be a super hero, Father Absolution, able to remit black sin in a single blessing.  He smiles vaguely, pushes back a vagabond grey tendril and floats away.  Thanks, padre.

In his wake another old woman, wearing a sash with an embroidered cross; a Girl Scout, but not peddling cookies.  She’s carrying a hand bell and a brass cup of wafers.  Sister Grace, Father Absolution’s faithful sidekick, doing the mop-up.  The brass always get cooler uniforms. I wink in grunt solidarity, ‘Hoo-rah, Sister!’

A giant fucking rat! Is it real?  I’m skagging, should feel better or feel nothing. 

Hospital clatter. Blink out.

I keep my eyes closed, scabbling to hold onto the dream.  A huge ebony and crimson fantail goldfish is swimming beside me in an azure lagoon. Her name is Bubbles.   We shine and sway together, nearly touching.  Somebody must have spiked me another taste of the dragon. 

Beepings and bleatings against a background of groans.  A tapestry of suffering, some mine.  I think I’ve crapped my fatigues; don’t want to know.  Floating, I see myself in all my splendid gore and clutter.

An exhausted corpsman bends over, touches my forehead.  He needs a shave, clean scrubs; never make E-5 looking like a hippy.  He’s asking something.  Lips move, sounds bubble up, but I understand nothing. It might as well be whale song.  He tags my spike deep, to the bottom, lowers his head, drifts away.  Thanks buddy.

An IED!   Better warn Bubbles. 

Beeping and blood smell.

Out.