Mourn for the Memory
By Numnut
29 May 2004

Hands.

He remembered hands.

But he didn’t remember whose.

Skin touching his, soft, warm, fingernails pressing into his back.

Heat.

Emotion.

Lips touching, feather light, then hungry, urgent, calling, biting his name into his neck.

Excitement.

Legs wrapped around his.

Hot breath ragged on his cheek.

A release that shook him, the world spinning.

A voice, a cry in the night.

Sweat running down his back.

He remembered hands.

“Colonel?”

He looked up at the doctor, seeing the concern on his face as a mere echo of the worry in his own mind. He didn’t want to answer.

“Colonel, I know this is hard, but I am only here to help you.”

He still didn’t answer, only reaching to finger the bandage swaddling half his head, resisting the urge to rip it off once and for all.

“What do you remember?”

He didn’t look at the man, not knowing if he had known him before the incident or not, but taking a firm dislike to him in any case. The concrete wall was far more interesting.

The doctor sighed, flipping his clipboard onto the desk, the clatter of the plastic echoing in the silent room. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”

Without a word, Jack stood up and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

He didn’t remember much.

But he did remember one thing.

Love.

He just didn’t remember who.

The explosion had taken far more than just his recollection.

But how could he mourn without the memory?

**********
FIN.