He sees the dragons, or maybe he doesn’t.
His people are descended from dragons.
The colour in his eyes is fading. Have they now come for him?
Visions come. Visions go. They permeate his mind like the fragments of decay and disease. Dementia is spiral of irretrievable loss. Perhaps one day the very fabric of his being will have disappeared into the breeze like the helicopter-whirl of a sycamore seed.
There are no survivors in this war.
He remembers his childhood neighbourhood – fields of endless crops nuzzling the Imperial Citadel of Thang Long. Dragons guarding the steps like living serpents.
He remembers the war. The men in uniforms from America. They came to protect his village, they said. He worked as interrupter. Despised by both sides.
His memories are living nightmares. His finest days are half-dream and the slumbering pull of medication. He sees his wife. Did he even have a wife?
Soon the dragons will embrace him.