Stinking smell! A knot twisted in his stomach from the pungent, rotten odor of human waste and death. Filthy Blackshirts had beat him until he'd cowered like an animal at the sound of their footsteps. He covered his ears and closed his eyes. The man's screams in the other cell curdled his blood. His own voice emitted the same sounds when they'd cut him. Desperate to hang on to a thread of sanity, he brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. They liked to carve him slowly, their favorite tools always razor- sharp. His stomach flipped again but nothing remained to vomit. Empty. Squeezing his eyes shut, he vowed to survive one more minute, one more day. He'd never give in to the bastards.

Captain Richard Hart woke from the sound of his own scream. He clamped down his mouth and tried to swallow through a raw throat. Shivering, he reached for the thin wool covers and pulled them to his chin. Brittle with emotions on the inside, on the outside, his skin burned.

An eerie tingling floated throughout his body. An image formed in his mind. Hanging from the steel girders of a bridge, he planted explosives. A rope tied around his waist guaranteed his safety. He'd never made a mistake until...

Hell. That terrifying moment when he realized he'd caused a man's death.

His foggy brain cleared and he remembered now. He lay in a hospital bed. How long had he been here?

Neither dead nor fully alive, he survived. But the confinement left him edgy and the tremors from his nightmares were, once again, coming in full force. He'd more than once woken drenched in sweat, screaming like a mad man. They'd moved him to the end of the ward and curtained him off from the other patients. To protect them from his madness, he supposed.

Pitch blackness surrounded him. He sniffed the air and scrunched his nose from the heavy smell of antiseptics. Tilting his head he listened. He caught phrases, words, strange clanging, coughs, and gruff voices around him. No doubt the patients were talking about him. Pressing his hand against his heart, it reassured him it still beat. His chest squeezed so tight he barely could catch his breath. A soft groan escaped his chapped lips.

Doctor Gerard had assured him he'd live. He'd suffered third-degree burns to his chest, but nothing life-threatening. Being caught in a blast could tear a man apart. He'd been damn lucky to only sustain minor injuries, if the doctor spoke the truth.

His hand flew up to his bandaged eyes. Retinal burns. No guarantee he'd see again. The doctor called this minor? What other injuries did he sustain besides his lost sight? He felt no pain, only a dull throb of his muscles from not being able to move around.

Flexing his hands, he couldn't reach past his torso, his wrapped chest hampering his movements. He'd heard about ghost limbs, where a person was tricked into thinking he had all his body parts. His body felt intact, but what if he'd been blown into pieces and just didn't know it yet? He strained to touch his legs, but he couldn't reach his torso with such constricting bandages. Without his sight, he'd lost all sense of time and sank into his nightmares. Now they came day or night. His demons mocked him from the edge of his conscious. Waiting.