Troubled pipes rattled and knocked, liquids dripping from their joints. Power hummed, warbling its way through hidden wires to a lightbulb which hung by a string from the ceiling. The door slammed shut, and the lightbulb swayed pendulously, casting light haphazardly across Randy's room and giving him a headache. He frowned. There was no mystery here: every wall, every fixture and everything exposed the base's careless construction.
Standing in his own doorway, he felt sick. This base was not his home. It would never be home and could never be home. Somewhere deep within, Randy understood that. He yearned for a different life, one he had never known—a life where the lawn was green and neighborhood children would come to gather and play. Where trees would grow both low and high. Where the soil was un-blasted, un-pitted, and not stone. He wished for a wife or people that loved him. A dog would even do. Someone to greet. Someone to care. Someone to play with when money was not there. A sinking feeling overcame him, so he sat. He felt sick.
He gathered his bits and sulked to the bathroom. With a nod and a flick, the lights thrummed to life, popped, then withered. He shaved in the dark, and his thoughts travelled to yesterday where an angel had deigned to visit.
It presented Randy with a choice: abandon his body and forsake this world to exist in another and find purpose there; or not. The angel did not care.
The shaving cream smelled like Randy's dreams of home and the cracker tins his wife would fill with potpourri. His mouth still smacked of her peppermint lip balm, and his soapy hands smelled just like her rosy black hair. He remembered a time when he was so young that people smiled just to see him.
Amid a rainy week, it had been a rainy day, and alleyways everywhere were crowded with the mournful whines of bastard pups. On his way to the dumpster to deposit last week's trash is where he saw him, one salt and pepper pup among seven sorry others. It was love at first sight, but food was scarce and war sat at every dinner table. His father would never let him. Little had he known that his neighbor, the mom, was passing by and chanced to see him crying.
When, determined to steal some milk, he arrived at the drugstore, that lady was already there. They and the shopkeeper were alone together, and Randy crept to avoid their eyes. Things seemed to go well as he lifted a bottle of milk, but the refrigerator door betrayed him. The shopkeeper yelled "Thief!" as Randy fled and would have jumped the counter had the mother-next-door not said "Stop."
"Apologies Mr. Doyle; he's my neighbor's son. We're walking together for errands! Won't you please excuse his behavior?"
Randy stood gaping at the lady's lie as she placed several coppers in Mr. Doyle's hand.
Face twitching with discomfort, he nodded. "Mm." Seeming to agree, he opened the register.
The mother next door smiled widely as the shopkeeper eyed Randy with distrust and scrutiny.
He deposited the money, a threat settling upon his tongue, and spoke. "Thank you, Misses." He turned to face the drug cabinet. "Mr. Mason… Mr. Mason… " he grumbled, wagging his finger at each bottle as he read their label. "Mr. Mason… Mr. Mason… Ah!" his eyes as he exclaimed. "Yes here it is, pure cow's insulin freshly distilled from locally sourced pancreas. For young master Mason's diabetes mellitus! Tab already paid by Uncle Sam. You, mam, are good to go!" he said, boxing the medication with ice. "Properly refrigerated, this five mils solution should keep for six months. Please return in five months' time for another bottle!" He glared at Randy again as he handed her the box, "But if something should happen just come back- I'm sure we can work something out." He began to place the milk bottle into a small paper bag, but Mrs. Mason stopped him.
"The milk is for the lad, as payment for his company."
To Randy's surprise, Mrs. Mason shared her umbrella with him as they left the drugstore and fed the puppies. Unconscious yearning broke him from his reverie as he remembered wishing that she were his mom. Unconsciously, he yearned for her to again fill his senses with flowers, warmth and grace. Mrs. Mason was the companion of his dreams.
He looked down at the sink. Cloudy water circled the drain. He smiled wide for the mirror and was greeted mirthlessly by his own bloodied expression. He had done a number on himself: he might need to see a dentist. If nothing else, he would get some painkillers out of it. Maybe he would tell them, "I tried tobacco and lost." He tried to laugh, but a bubble caught in his throat, so he choked instead. Firm black sludge dislodged from somewhere in his airway and stuck itself grimly to the sink's northern wall. "Yikes," he mouthed. "Maybe I should see the doctor, too?" Despite himself, he laughed through his nose. He knew what that sludge was. Every soldier did, even the new ones. It was his material soul- his anima materiales- his Pittsium. He wiped a tear from his image in the mirror and turned up the water faucet. As he adjusted it for temperature, the water buffeted the lump of Pittsium, eventually washing it down the drain along with some discarded shaving cream and toothpaste. He grabbed the shaving knife and cleaned the rest of his toiletries before wiping down the sink.
Finished with his morning routine, he turned off the faucet and stared blankly at the mirror. With his stubbled scalp, smooth skin, and dead eyes his reflection looked like any other soldier's. The wistful smells from earlier had faded. Outside, the shadow of day stretched out long upon the lifeless winter snow. As he left to face it, he mumbled a minor cantrip[1], "love, rain for the alleyway," and his sickness disappeared.
[1] A spell of little to no difficulty. Often taught to students during compulsory education, cantrips tend to see frequent use both in professional and private settings.