Donny's hands trembled as he poured the remainder of the whiskey bottle into his glass.

He never drank like this before the war. Not aside from the occasional beer swiped from his or his buddies' fathers. Now seldom a day went by where hard liquor didn't pass through his lips. Most nights it was just a swig or two to numb him a little. Tonight was one of those nights that total intoxication couldn't even cure.

He needed sleep. He needed it however it came.

Get out!

Those two words. Over and over since he'd been home. When still in battle, the cries were dulled, reduced to sporadic middle of the night hauntings in a dream. Since he'd been home, it was nightly, daily, hourly even. Some days proved more difficult than others, but the good days were marred by the fear of when it would be bad again.

He hadn't felt his feet for an hour. Either a good or bad sign. Somehow, he was still propped up against the piano. His fingers wouldn't play, his salvation abandoning him. Just like he'd abandoned Michael. Just like he'd abandoned his promise to look in on his wife.

"He had to have heard me. How didn't he hear me? He had to!"

His slurred words pushed through the tears. He choked down another sip, the burn evident but the liquid tasteless.

Congrats, Novitski. You get to go home.

Home.

Home without Michael.

Talking about going home had been the only way through the terror they faced over there. Some of the boys had wives and girlfriends. Some had younger siblings they wanted to see. Some just looked forward to kicking back and listening to good news on the radio. Donny? He had his music career. They'd all be waiting for him, just like they'd said before he shipped out.

But everyone at home didn't live in the war zone. Life went on despite the absence of so many young men. The children grew, the wives waited or mourned, but life was otherwise the same. Changes were slow. They adapted. Men like Donny left in their prime and returned as heroes for a day or two. After that, they weren't missed.

He was a has-been at twenty-four.

In and out of clubs every day, he watched those who had remained behind enjoy what they'd never given up. Did they not have any realization as to what had been going on in the world? The club owners who laughed in his face… Why were jerks like them spared the nightmares and the bloodshed? The sight of rotting corpses and wearing their friends' blood?

Life would never be like it was before. That was a blow he hadn't been prepared for.

Everything was different. Worst of all the lies. The lies of victory. Where was the victory for the millions and millions of people who had died? Where was the fear that it might happen again – that a new group of people would try to rise above them all? It wouldn't look the same, but all it took was the motive and the tweaking of this to disillusion the mass. Where was their outrage? Did they think the newsreels were fiction? Did they think the worst of the sacrifices made had been the use of ration books?

It's not the same… Something needs to be the same.

How long would it take? Was the world always this mad and he'd just been too young and naive to see it? The Depression seemed to be over for America, replaced by his own and the grief of so many soldiers. He was sure of it. But no one seemed to care about their struggles if it didn't affect them. They handed over their sanity and their lives for a pat on the back. Most of them didn't want accolades, they wanted familiarity. They wanted everything to be exactly how they left them. How it was promised.

Four years was a long time. They'd been endless in battle, yet there was an absence of the hours as it was happening. It was hard to mark the calendar laying in a trench for days at a time. It was worse in the rain. When they finally climbed out you could barely make out a face, everyone covered in mud and grim.

Everyone looked older, all of them with unique scars and horror in their eyes. He couldn't imagine what it was like for his buddies going home to the children they'd only seen as infants. He was lucky in that way, not to have the constant reminders of the time he'd lost at home. He could keep fighting for his music career – and it wouldn't be a career with the accordion. It wasn't dead. Even in the darkest moments, he knew he would keep fighting. He had to. Michael hadn't given his life for him to turn around and end it all.

He just had to get through tonight.

One more swig.