Screams that wakefulness diminish return as he reclines, before he even closes his eyes. Begging that he didn't hear when the deaths occurred surge through spirals of time. He curls up on one side, holding himself ready for kicks that are only metaphysical. The horror seeps in, bit by bit, and weighs on his newly returned soul, like dirt thrown into a grave.
Sleep brings no release. Dreams are sacred ground for terror. He is chased by martyrs with raven claws and ripped throats, who drown him in tears and blood.
He always wakes up wishing for air.