Story of my life.
Home isn’t always where your heart is.
He is pretty sure that was ripped from him somewhere back in the Pacific anyway. Or maybe later. Who can really say?
The big guy upstairs could, but he’s sure not looking to give him the hand. He barely seems to remember his name these days.
Since being home he’s been slow to warm up; he has trouble with crowds; he no longer enjoys hunting; hugging even his mother is difficult; having a job is impossible.
His former self is a fog long dispersed.
The family doctor, good ol’ Dad, tells him that he will be able to carry on. He’s seen it before, it will pass in time. And maybe he can, and maybe he’s beginning to believe it, but there’s a lesson to be learned and civilian life is slower to teach it.
It isn’t until later that he learns just how much it has to do with that torn muscle.
I like it well enough. It’s pretty bland as it stands. And it’s an idea that’s been done before. And then more. Coming home, starting a new life, living together, etc.
This bunny is biting regardless. I’ve got to put my spin on it. You know… UST and rambling and blood and metaphors and less than perfect grammar and cursing and cliffhangers.
Plot has never been my strong suit. I like character delving, fleshing out. I also fear I repeat myself endlessly. Not in one piece, but over all of them collectively. And not in a cool, Stephen King sort of way. A forgetful, lazy sort of way. Can also just have ‘em sit and muse for a thousand words and maybe suggest at an underlying theme once. Or not. And then get bored and end it all weird, feeling regret, because I could have done better.
Shut up and write.
Writerbation ain’t so bad.