Page 69 of Nocturne

Outside my window, dawn is a dull gray glow, subdued by the marine layer. I exhale and run a hand through my hair, finding it slightly damp. Odd. I don’t remember showering before collapsing into bed last night.

Another gap in time? No—just fatigue making me forgetful. It has to be.

I refuse to consider the alternative.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, noticing the lingering scent of my soap, as if I’d recently scrubbed every inch of my body with obsessive thoroughness. I glance over at the bathroom, the door stands ajar, towel hung haphazardly on therack, shower stall still beaded with moisture. Evidence of use I have no memory of.

The events of the past week swirl through my mind like leaves caught in the wind—following Marco to his house in the hills, the confrontation, the rage that overtook me.

Then the blankness.

The nothing.

Just waking up covered in his blood, surrounded by carnage I had no memory of creating.

I’d buried him in the canyons off Mulholland Drive, my hands steady despite the horror coursing through me. Not my first grave, thanks to the war, but the first I’d dug for a man I’d killed outside of combat.

The guilt should be crushing me. Instead, I feel a strange, detached unease—as if the actions were committed by someone else, someone wearing my skin.

Because it was someone else who had murdered Marco, wasn’t it?

I mean, it wasn’tme.

It can’t be.

I can’t be…a monster.

What I need are answers. Professional help. These blackouts are getting worse, the gaps in my memory growing larger.

And now people are dying during those gaps.

I dress quickly, deciding to skip breakfast. Food holds little appeal lately, though I’m consumed by a different kind of hunger I can’t name. By nine, I’m sitting in Dr. Harold Wheeler’s waiting room, an austere space that smells of antiseptic and old magazines.

Wheeler was the battalion doctor during my time in Europe. He’s seen the worst of what war does to a man’s mind—the thousand-yard stares, the night terrors, the violent outbursts. If anyone can make sense of what’s happening to me, it’s him.

“Victor Callahan,” he says, when I’m finally ushered into his office, rising from behind his desk to shake my hand. “Been a while. What brings you in today?”

I take the offered seat, studying the man before me. Wheeler looks older than I remember—hair grayer, face more lined. The war aged all of us, I suppose.

“I’ve been having blackouts,” I admit. “Losing time. Hours, sometimes a full day. No memory of where I went or what I did.”

Wheeler’s expression doesn’t change as he reaches for his notepad, which I find relieving. “How long has this been happening?”

“A few weeks. Getting worse.” I hesitate, then add, “Started around my thirty-fifth birthday.”

He nods, making a note. “Any other symptoms? Headaches? Visual disturbances? Changes in appetite?”

“All of the above. Light bothers me sometimes, sounds seem louder. Food doesn’t taste right anymore.” I don’t mention the blood I vomited after finding Marco, the metallic taste that lingers in my mouth after each episode.

Wheeler listens, his pen scratching against paper. When I finish, he leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Combat fatigue can manifest in unusual ways,” he says finally. “Delayed onset isn’t uncommon, especially when triggered by stress.”

“It’s been eight years since the war,” I point out.

“But you also lost your wife as well.”

I swallow that down. “I’ve grieved her. I’ve moved on.”

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