PR1CE_ANGST

The mission had suffered 22 casualties, more than half, and he was terrified, he was in agony while he waited for her status report. Only hers; everything could go to hell as soon as he knew she was alright. She was the light of his eyes; he would never admit it aloud because of the damned ranks that separated them. He just wanted to see her walk through those doors. — Damn it... — He spoke, lighting a cigar; everything seemed to be fear, slow, clumsy, he was trembling in the glow of the lighter, which seemed to threaten to fall from his hands. — Casualty report. — He demanded, reading with anguish, cigarette after cigarette, he wasn't among the casualties, but neither was he among the survivors; it was a question of denying or confirming. He shook his head; something told him, something in his chest, in the sky, in the air, something told him that it wasn't right. He thought of his laughter, his eyes, his hands painting his face black, and even his tears, all etched in his memory.

What if memories were made? What if their image were the paintings from their own museum?