The Recurring Dream

Posted on 23 Nov 2021 @ 3:20pm by Petty Officer 2nd Class Leon Inaros

628 words; about a 3 minute read

The dream always start the same way.

Hey Doc, you think we’ll be having some R&R?

I’m not a doctor, but Ciamu still calls me that. They all do. He’s close to me, so close I can see the patterns of his Trill spots, the way his eyes shine. Joined the Marines to get some experience but he wants to be joined. And wanted to bring some experience to a future Symbiont.

Not just a pretty face, I want to bring more to the relationship.

From there on, the dreams can differ. I can see Ciamu’s face, whole and smiling and then blink and he is beside me, left side burned, half a forehead missing, laughing at me, before it flashes back again. The environment can be different as well.

I like the regular Fleet, they give us rides to fight the baddies…

A starship, one moment whole and we are laughing, shoulder to shoulder. We all laugh and look at each other with disbelief, because we are still alive. We are still breathing.

You know, I have to give it to these regular Fleeters, they’re certainly spoiling for a fight. Maybe we’re rubbing off on them?

A starbase, taking a moment to just catch our breaths, get some proper medical care.

I don’t know why I ignored that on my foot. I know better. I just had other priorities at the moment.

A Klingon ship, eating in the mess. We wolf down the food because we don’t know where the next steady meal will come. We square up to the Klingons as much as we can, join in their jokes. They keep laughing at how short my hair is. So the next day I shave it, go bald, just to make them laugh again.

Pe’vIl mu’qaDmey!

Gaining ground on a planet. It can be any planet, it never matters. I am running between wounded. Klingons get a hypo to get them on their feet, even if they are almost dead.

Better to die like a warrior than a sickly child.

I am meant to do no harm but I do it anyway. Treat the patient, not the disease. It is war. That is the disease.

Tags put on shoulders, where it can’t be seen by the poor sods. Black tag. Always black. I work on those I can, the reds becoming black over time. We keep holding our positions.

I am certain I am dying.

Doc, we’re all dying. Just at different speeds.

The dream ends the same way though.

There’s an explosion. I am thrown to the ground and for a moment I think I am okay.

If I am fine, why are the holes?

Blood seeps through the cracks, soaking the clothing. It starts and keeps coming. Not just the holes. My mouth, my eyes, my ears. I try to scream but I am drowning in my own blood. I look up and grab a passing man. He looks at me with blue eyes, giving a small smile and pats my shoulder. I manage to turn my head.

A black tag.

I look at him again, trying to explain I am not a lost cause. He looks at me and I recognise him.

He’s me.

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

I always wake up screaming.

I’ve never told the counsellors this. A part of me knows I should but I am ashamed. If I say it, it makes it something public, something dirty and real. If I keep it inside…

I am just holding onto the memories.

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