._../_ _ _/.../_

He remembers the day he came home.

There were throngs of people at the train station, but none there for him. His friends were gone, buried in the trenches. His family is unfamiliar, not uncaring, but unknowing; the ones who had become family had faded, hardly human anymore.  

His life is different now.

Before, his home had been a place of gentle laughter, of life, of evening dances in the moonlight, nothing taken for granted. 

Now it is silent. He lives alone, a life of black and white feelings, flavorless meals, tears soaking through bed covers during sleepless nights.  

Now he paints portraits of war with his own blood, so detailed it seems as though he fought just yesterday.  

Now he only survives.