Sentinel of the Dog Days

Trigger Warning: This story includes descriptions of war injuries, emotional trauma, grief, and loss.

Thomas Jackson, age seven:

Scary things happen at night. At least, that’s what little Tommy had always believed. When the Dog Star rose in the summer sky, burning brighter than all the others, pushing away the Sun’s happy glow and casting its strange, watchful light upon barren hearts and broken homes, little Tommy cried. His mother once told him it was a guardian star that watched over children during the Dog Days of Summer, but little Tommy wasn’t so sure. It felt too awake. Too aware.

It was a Thursday, a day like any, an ordinary day, a boring day. Little Tommy lay frozen beneath his blankets, staring at Sirius as if it might stare back. As if it were staring back. In the distance, a crow—the Dog Star's wicked herald—let out a ragged, bone-deep cry, and little Tommy shuddered. He scrambled out of bed, running towards his parents' door, the little trains on his pajamas followed, full-steam ahead. “Mommy… Daddy… I’m scared,” little Tommy whispered at first, then sobbed, a tear glinting in Sirius' cold light. Little Tommy’s mother awoke at the sound, groggily sitting up in bed, pushing aside the comforter and patting the spot next to her. Her smile was bright, but in her eyes lingered the shadows of countless sleepless nights, carved there by little Tommy’s fear. Her husband’s snores slowed to soft wisps until there were no more, and he too rose to pick up his son, placing him between him and his wife. She brushed his hair back and told him the Dog Star never sleeps — so he didn’t have to be afraid. But to little Tommy, that was exactly the problem. Nonetheless, the boy sighed in soft happiness, and silence befell the dark room. After minutes of quiet, just when his father’s snores began to rise once again, little Tommy whispered, “I can’t sleep.” Without a word, his father leaned across the bedside table to turn on the lamp, and his mother sang his lullaby. Soon, little Tommy’s raspy breaths evened out into the soft, steady cadence of dreams.

Thomas Jackson, age eighteen:

Tommy’s mother blinked away her tears, while his father masked his sorrow beneath the fragile armor of a proud smile. Tommy stood before them in his pressed army greens, the brass buttons catching the light like tiny Suns. “What do we think?” Tommy asks, grinning ear to ear. Tommy’s mother lets out a watery laugh, and Tommy’s father slaps him on the back lovingly. “You look good, champ,” he says. Tommy turned to his mother, doing a silly dance to show off his outfit. His green, American outfit. His uniform. His country. His life. Tommy’s mother pulls him towards her, wrapping her arms around her son, trying to hold on to her little Tommy for as long as she could.

Later, tucked beneath the covers in the quiet of his room, Tommy lay still, the weight of his new uniform lingering like a promise on his skin. Through his open window, the summer heat drifted in, and there, high above the rooftops, Sirius glimmered like it had the night he was seven. Only now, it didn’t feel cold. It pulsed, alive, almost daring him to follow it beyond the horizon. Recently, Tommy stared at everything in awe. Memorizing each inch of his hometown, his childhood, his happiness. But despite that, Tommy couldn’t help but feel excited. Excited to leave this place, the same place he was born and raised. To see a new world on a new frontier. A smile twitched at the corner of his lips, and his mind raced in exhilaration: I can’t sleep.

Thomas Jackson, age thirty-two:

The air was thick with smoke and the sharp scent of gunpowder, as explosions ripped through the earth and the cries of men tangled with the thunder of artillery. Bloodied bodies lay at the edges of ravines, hundreds already flowing through the rapid current, down south. Thomas lay behind a slab of vertical stone, its russet hue further darkened by the blood of his soldiers. His comrades. His friends. His family. Looking at him now, the innocence once in Thomas’ face was nowhere to be seen, leaving behind a haunted shadow that had settled in deep since he was twenty-six. At thirty-two, his eyes were hollow wells of weariness, his jaw set with a hard, unyielding resolve, and the lines etched across his face told stories no words ever could. Patches of dirt colored his face in arbitrary patterns, and dried blood coated his forehead and arms. Through the shroud of smoke, Sirius burned faintly above the battlefield. It did not blink. It did not hide. Thomas hated it for that—for always being awake, always shining, even as the ground swallowed men whole.

“Thomas, THOMAS!” Sergeant Adams yelled. He throttled Thomas’ arm, gripping his elbow with a force only caused by panic. Thomas coughed at the action, blood pouring out of his mouth, mixing with the sweat smeared across his face. His body bore the cruel aftermath of the Beretta M9’s bullets–five jagged wounds that burned and throbbed with every heartbeat. His uniform was torn and soaked through, that American green dulled to a muted, bloodstained shadow of its former pride. As Thomas slipped in and out of consciousness, he heard his Sergeant's orders, his comrades’ screams: “Thomas, don’t close your eyes!” “Thomas, don’t you dare sleep!” “Thomas, hold on!”. Riddled with determination and a burning passion to see his family again, his beloved mother and father, Thomas whispered, “I won’t sleep. I can’t sleep.”

Present:

The flag was meticulously folded into a perfect triangle, with only the deep blue field of stars visible. The soldier who held it, arms out so that it rested in a manner where it barely touched his skin at all, bowed his head. Above the sweltering August air, Sirius shone clear and sharp, the last sentinel of the Dog Days. It seemed to watch from the same place it always had — but for the first time, it did not look like it was watching Thomas. It was watching them.

Thomas’ father, an old man now, with smile lines that formed into wrinkles and circular reading glasses hung from his breast pocket, fell to his knees, the doorknob slipping from his hands. A film formed over his eyes, a glazed sheet blurring the scene before him. His breaths became raspy, and his hand clutched his chest. “Honey, who is it?” His wife called from the kitchen, walking over. Dusting her hands on her apron, she finally looks up, first seeing her husband on the floor. Next, her eyes land on the American flag. That folded the American flag. A hand flew to her mouth, and she stumbled back. A guttural cry escaped her lips, and she collapsed in a pile of limbs on the floor. From behind them, the oven beeped incessantly, the smell of burnt apple pie flooding the house. Not long after, the smoke detectors went off, a blaring sound throttling their neighbors. But nobody moved. Not the mother, not the father, not the soldier, not the flag. Nobody moved. And as the fire trucks showed up, nobody moved. As each firefighter ran into the house, gear assembled, nobody moved. Soon, even the firefighters didn’t move. Everything went still, and time slowed to a stop.

Later that night, little Tommy watched his mother cry into the crook of his father’s neck. He watched from above, a little quiver capturing his lips. Sirius glowed warmly above him, no longer sharp, no longer cold—only steady. “It’s ok, mommy. Don’t cry,” he whispers, knowing very well that the words would never reach her ears. “It’s ok to sleep. You can sleep.” Little Tommy closed his eyes and sang his parents the lullaby they had sung to him when he was seven, the last thread between them and the silence.