Enfilade

Sweet music seeps into the air around him, the notes shimmering off of his skin. It cocoons
him, thick and suffocating, almost like the blood seeping through his fingers. Serrated wound
against the warm, solid chest. The music flows, swirling in his ragged breaths, failing to calm
his fringing nerves. There’s a scratch, a gunshot. He flinches hard. Metal bites into his skin,
the dog tags aren’t cold anymore. The record soothes back under the needle. The melody is
soft, a phantom caress on his skin. Memories of scintillating touches and hushed breaths; salt
finds its way to his lips, tears silent against the haunting harmony. The treble approaches and
he can see; bullets and grenades, shells and flares. And against the mayhem, dark hair and blue
eyes. Clasped hands tremble in impending doom. The last note, his last breath; broken.

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