Black.

Black.

Black.

Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.

Black.

He lay on his back and stared, watching the fan spin in circles over his head. He tried to count. He succeeded. When the numbers began to count themselves, he turned to face the wall and stared again.

The problem with remembering everything was remembering the nothing. When John opened his eyes, he could sit through hours of blackness that never shifted or stirred, if he wanted. As he started to remember the black, he stood up and put on his clothes, pulling on pants and socks and shirt and then wandering into the bathroom. He could see the black as he watched himself in the mirror, one hand in his hair and one hand on his toothbrush. He could remember the black as he ate breakfast and drove to work. He could remember the black minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day.

John stopped dreaming after the war. He could still remember the sounds of death and the sounds of life right before death. He could remember the stiffness of the cold hands and arms as he tried to move them, as he tried to shout them awake. "Breathe!" he'd cried. He remembered the smell of blood and the smell of decay and he remembered shutting his eyes on the battlefield as he turned and ran away from all the swollen bodies corpulent with blood. He ran away. And as he ran away, he remembered praying.

His prayers were answered. His dreams had disappeared and run away, just like he had. Stolen away. So every night, John got his black dreams and every morning they'd be there to pad the silences.

That night, John closed his eyes and dreamt of black.

Black.

Black.

Black.