I remember few of my dreams. I wake up with only flashes of colours, like swift water slipping through my fingers, only to find my fists clenched, my own breath strange.
In dreams that I do remember, I recall lucidly the moment a bullet lodges itself in my head, or the second that an arrow pierces my arm, or the muted instant a mine explodes somewhere around me. Then I suddenly realise that I am dreaming and I cannot be destroyed. I pick the bullet from my brain. I pluck the arrow from my flesh. I reconstruct my bones.
Once I remember we held a naked blade together and I could feel blood warm and thick. But I woke up, only to find my hands empty, and my eyes blind in the dark, the wounds real and open to the night air.