Nightmares

by Redhawk

I can no longer sleep at night.

My eyes drift closed, and I smell the smell of burnt flesh, feel the hot harsh winds caress my face, see the whimsical chaos of the blast-pattern, and worst of all, I see the bodies.

Dozens of them within a few steps of where I stand. Hundreds, within a few moment's walk. Thousands in all directions, all blasted to charred ribbons in a searing instant of weakness.

My weakness.

I thought I could control it. I could feel the energy fields buck and shift, unravel before my very eyes. I fought it with everything I had; I gave it all that I could. I very nearly severed something deep inside, something fundamental to my very being, trying to contain it.

I had the portal open. I saw it, for a shining moment. My road home.

But my power was insufficient.

And because I was weak, I lost everything that meant anything.

I can even still see her corpse. My wife ... I am not worthy to let your hallowed name cross my sullied lips. I ... I miss you. With each beat of my heart, your memory stabs into me, demanding, cajoling. Your flame red hair, so rare among your people. Your soft green eyes, always sparkling with wit and a joy in being alive. Even the duties of your office could not crush that joy.

It took me, and my weakness, to drive the lights from your eyes.

I remember your every curve, your every caress. I feel them, late at night when I am weak. I remember your smile, always so quick to come out when you saw me. If I close my eyes, you are there. If I look to one side, or the other, there you are.

Why do you look so accusing, my love? Please, don't look at me like that. Don't. I cannot bear it when you look at me anymore. I only slipped a little...

No, please.

Not again.

Not the bodies. I see your perfect flesh, your warm and caring face, dissolve in an instant of horrified terror. I see the flames blast through your body, I see you thrown down to the ground like a rag doll. I see your closest advisors, those you grew up with and called friend, blasted into bloody rags in a microsecond. I see the radiation scorch blooming from my body like a deadly flower, and all who come in contact with my flower burn.

In each twisted body, each burned corpse, I see my shame. Does it make the dead rest any easier to

know that the portal is sealed?

By the looks in your dead eyes, I suppose it does not.

The smell is what I remember the most. The cooked-meat stink of the bodies, the metallic tang of boiled blood. The stench lies heavy over me, permeating me body and soul.

I washed my body for hours, trying to drive the stink from me. My burns ached with a terrible fire, and with each throbbing pulse of pain I felt a small measure of absolution. But I know now that nothing I could do could possibly wipe the slate clean.

I killed you.

Does it please you, my wife, to know that I've saved this dusky-skinned stranger from the deep desert? I brought her inside, before the unforgiving desert could leach out her most vital fluids.

She sleeps, now. Her body needs rest, time to heal. Her garb is like nothing I have ever seen, but

I came to this unforgiving waste to keep the world safe from me, from my weakness.

Perhaps someday, if I find a thousand like her, and save them all, the scales will balance.

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