No secret... the U.S.M.C. t-shirt I'm wearing is a good enough hint I served. What she sees below my waist is another one.
I stare at her a moment, seeing hope in her eyes. Hope that my sacrifice was an honor for me to bear, and that her ability to sleep under a safe blanket of freedom is due solely to my leg that was mangled beyond repair while driving through the Helmand Province. She hopes I will thank her for her kind words, and that I will make her feel better for feeling safe at the expense of my blood and bones.
"Fuck off," I growl at her, actually taking great pleasure in the hurt and mortification on her face before I grab the bag and head out of the store. I take such immense pleasure in her discomfort that I know without a doubt that my shit-stained soul can never be scrubbed clean and salvaged. That I am a man who cannot be redeemed.
While my character as a human being is as foul as they come these days, I didn't always treat people like this. For the first few months after I was released from the hospital, I tried to give a nod of gratitude to anyone who acknowledged my service and sacrifice.
But then it got old.
I mean, really old.
And heavy. The heaviest of burdens weighing down on me like concrete. It made my chest squeeze with anxiety the minute someone would open their mouth to talk to me, and I would start to turn inward upon myself before the words of gratitude could penetrate me. It was as if an entirely different being resided within me, because I would watch almost from a distance, deep within myself, as I started to make up lies to tell people.
"Oh, I wasn't injured in combat. Shark attack."
Or...
"Bad incident with a combine working on my granddaddy's farm."
Or...
"Pissed-off girlfriend. Tried to cut my dick off, but got my leg and fingers instead."
Whatever.
The point being, I was tired of people thanking me for something I hadn't intended to do. I did not intend to get myself blown to pieces. When I signed up to serve my country, I didn't do so out of some deep sense of patriotism, but because it was a way out of a terrible life in the coal mines. My lies started getting more and more outrageous until I finally just ran out. I couldn't come up with one more interesting accident that could have destroyed my body the way it did.
And so, I just started telling people how I really felt. I told them to "fuck off." It truly was the best way to shut the conversation down.
There were no follow-up remarks like, "Oh, wow... a shark? That's amazing."
Or...
"Geez... I thought those combines had safety shut-off features."
Or...
"Is your girlfriend doing prison time, dude? Because she should totally be doing prison time for that."
The "fuck off" line did not invite reciprocal commentary, so it's the method I now employ one-hundred percent of the time to get people to leave me alone in my misery.
It's not where I'm happiest, but it is where I'm most comfortable.
Chapter 3
Six weeks ago...
I took a deep drag off my cigarette.
So deep that the heat seared the skin of my thumb and forefinger, but I ignored it. I'd felt worse pain than that before. With a practiced flick, the glowing butt tumbled end over end into a flower bed of dried-out petunias. For a split second, I waited to see if they'd catch fire. If they did, then I'd get out of that stupid meeting, but, as always, the fates weren't kind to me. I watched as it continued to smoke slightly but caused no damage to the foliage, and so my immediate fate was decided.
I was already ten minutes late to the meeting, a fact I was very much aware of as I stood outside the library entrance while smoking down my Marlboro Red. I knew it wasn't the best way to make a good first impression, and I also knew that failure to attend the meeting would earn my ass a one-way ticket to a forty-five-day jail sentence.
And I still didn't give a fuck.
I mean... so what? I'd bet a jail cell wasn't much different than my shitty five-hundred-square-foot apartment filled with water stains on the ceiling and cockroaches on the walls. The meals were probably better.
It was the same old shit I'd been given the last year and a half.
Fuck you very much for your service to your country. You lost a leg, but here's a shiny new one for you as a consolation prize.
Or...
What the fuck, Marine? We get you have some "issues" following your injuries, but that's nothing that a little mental health tune-up can't help you with.
Now insert a condescending pat on the head as I was handed a bottle of antidepressants along with the directions to the Wake County library where I was supposed to attend group therapy as a means to avoid jail.
I pulled my phone from the pocket on the leg of my cargo shorts. It clanged against the metal of my prosthetic before my stiff fingers could get a good grasp, and I pulled it out. I figured if I was getting ready to sit with a group of depressed losers, I might as well pile the misery on good before I went in there.
The text icon indicated three awaiting messages, and I found it telling that my heart didn't race anymore at the prospect of hearing from Maria. I wanted to hear from her, but I didn't feel as if my existence depended on it anymore, and I supposed that was some progress.
Immediately, I saw what I'd seen for the past four months. Or not seen actually.
Nothing from Maria.
Nothing to have indicated she'd come to her senses and realized she'd made a huge mistake by breaking up with me. Because seriously... who didn't want an incomplete man with an enormously fucked-up head?
There was a text from my brother, Jody. Leeds River Mine is hiring.
I deleted the message immediately. It did no good to respond and decline, because it wouldn't stop Jody from trying to get me to come back home to West Virginia and partake in the family tradition of coal mining. I wasn't sure why it was important to him, because my family had made it clear they didn't give a shit what happened to me over there.
Another text was from Ferguson... a dude I served with in Afghanistan. I didn't even bother reading it, but I could imagine what it said. Thinking of you, buddy. Stay strong. God Bless. Semper Fi. Blah, blah, blah.
Delete.
Finally, a message from Digger. My drug dealer. Just scored. B at ur place at 9.
That one I didn't delete. The prospect of smoking myself into oblivion that night while kicking Digger's ass in Call of Duty caused an actual smile to come to my face. Well, I thought it was a smile. I had a two-inch scar running from the left corner of my mouth down to the side of my chin that actually pinched and tugged a bit, which usually meant I was smiling, but without a mirror, I wasn't sure.
Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I entered the library, immediately thankful for the icy blast of air conditioning. It was a blistering ninety-five degrees in Raleigh, North Carolina--a bit high for May--and some people refused to turn on the AC unless it was officially summertime. But these morons would never know what hot was really like until they'd walked around in a scorching desert carrying ninety pounds of gear and weaponry.
Just beyond the circulation desk was a wooden door with a brass plaque beside it on the wall that said "Anderson Reading Room". I didn't bother with a knock, but pushed the door open without preamble. I immediately took in a round circle of chairs facing inward, no more than ten total. At least half of them were empty. A small woman stood from the chair nearest me and waved me in.
"Come in, come in," she said in a distinctly southern voice. She was small... not even five foot. And old. Like older than my grandmama, Kaylene, on my daddy's side who was like sixty and had a rough life complicated by drugs and alcohol. And yet, this woman looked older than that. She had short, cropped hair the color of snowy clouds and deeply lined skin that was more pronounced around the corners of her eyes, lips, and along her neckline. Sparkling blue eyes looked at me with almost a hint of amusement. I knew her name was Mags Bundy from the paperwork I'd received that ordered me here and that
she was to be our counselor and facilitator.
"Now that Christopher is here, we can get started," Mags said as she settled into her plastic chair. I found an empty one without anyone immediately to either side and sat. She crossed one small leg over the other, and the hem of her faded jeans pulled up to reveal pink socks with red lips on them. Somehow, that didn't surprise me.
"This is a peer-led support group for anyone suffering from traumatic stress and depression. It's sponsored by the county, so that's your tax dollars hard at work. It's not designed to provide counseling services, but merely to allow a safe place where people can come together to discuss their issues. The reasons we're all here are varied, and we'll get to know each other well. Today, we'll just spend some time with introductions. I'll start first."
I lowered my gaze to the floor and tried to tune out Mags' voice. She was clearly a native of the south as indicated by her accent, but she spoke quickly and with purpose. If I had to describe her in my limited exposure and in just three words, I'd have said, "Tough. Old. Broad."
"I've been leading this group for thirteen years now. It runs every quarter for twelve weekly sessions, an hour each session. I suffer from chronic depression stemming from a long string of woes that have happened to me, starting with my father sexually abusing me for several years and ending with an abusive husband who liked to flick cigarettes at my head for sport."
My shoulders gave a slight jerk and my head tilted up to see Mags staring at me. I could picture the cigarette I had just flicked away not five minutes ago as it tumbled end over end away from me. I imagined doing that again... right now... right at Mags' head. The thought didn't offend me too much, because while yeah... sucked to be diddled by your daddy, that didn't have shit to do with me.
We were apples and oranges.
She had two strong legs and was clearly not feeble in the head. She could have walked away from that shit where as I couldn't even crawl away from my shit. I had to be scraped off the desert floor.
Mags continued to talk about the format of the group. She said something about confidentiality and maybe taking field trips...like we were at summer camp or something. I tuned her out and started looking at my fellow prisoners.
My eyes immediately came to the woman sitting directly across from me. She stared raptly at Mags, shoulders relaxed and her knees pressed primly together. One delicate hand rested on her lap while the other fiddled with a long lock of golden-blonde hair that hung over her shoulder.
Her face was an interesting study. High cheekbones, a sloped nose that tilted upward, and large, almond-shaped eyes that gave her an elfin sort of look. I couldn't tell what color her eyes were because her lids hung a little heavy, almost as if she were drowsy. Actually, it was kind of a sexy look.
Bedroom eyes. That was what they looked like, and I had a sudden longing for Maria that struck me deep in the pit of my stomach. Maria laying on the bed, naked and looking up at me with those heated eyes filled with lust. God, I missed that look. And fuck, I missed sex. And I hated her for taking it away from me.
The blonde's head turned slightly, and she looked directly at me. It was a weird gaze because I expected her eyes to widen a bit when she realized I was staring at her, but her lids still hung low, again giving that slightly drowsy look. My guess was she was drugged out of her mind.
Well, regardless... she had perpetual bedroom eyes and wouldn't be a hardship to look at over the next few months.
My gaze cut away from Sexy Eyes, and I look at the person to her left. Young guy... still in his teens if the acne and protruding Adam's apple were anything to go by. He was skinny and gaunt and bald. Definitely sick. Pale skin and tired eyes that told me he'd had chemo or radiation. I saw plenty of veterans in for cancer treatments while I was rehabbing. I decided to call him Dead Kid, and I quashed the tiny kernel of sympathy that flickered within me because I sometimes imagined going where he was headed, and it didn't seem like a bad option.
Moving on...
That left one other person in the room, and she sat to my left with a chair in between us. I had to crane my neck to look at her, so it was obvious I was staring. Her face tilted to meet my gaze, and we leveled hateful stares at each other. I hadn't noticed it before, but I did now. The distinctive, sour-smoky smell of pot coming off her along with the slightly glazed irises of a creepy green-brown color. She was totally goth looking, covered in piercings and tattoos with a nasty vibe of "I hate everything" coming off her.
She was unique and angry, and that was compelling to me. I wondered if she'd give me a blow job in return for the joint I had stashed in my cargo pocket.
On second thought, she was so angry looking I was afraid she might bite my dick off and I couldn't afford to lose anymore body parts. When the IED exploded under our Humvee, most of the blast got absorbed by the undercarriage of the vehicle. It was ripped and torn steel that cut into my leg, shattered the bones, and took two fingers from my right hand. My tender nuts and dick didn't get a scratch--not that they were doing me much good. My left side was untouched except for a small fragment of debris that caught me on the chin.
"So, let's go around the room and introduce ourselves to each other," Mags said, and I pulled away from the death-glare match I had going on with Goth Chick. "Who would like to start?"
There was utter silence, a few fidgeting moves from everyone, and then Sexy Eyes raised her hand slightly with a small smile. "I will."
"Very brave, Jillian," Mags praised with a beaming smile.
Jillian? Hmmm. Pretty name for a pretty girl. I bet she would not, however, give me a blow job for a joint. She definitely looked too sweet and innocent for that.
"So... um," Jillian stumbled while pushing her hair behind an ear with one hand. "I'm Jillian Martel. I'm here for depression. I've been diagnosed with Kearns-Sayre Syndrome."
Another tuck of her hair back on the opposite side and a brave smile.
"It affects me in a bunch of different ways. I'm going progressively blind. Right now, I have no peripheral vision and things are a bit blurry sometimes... like my vision is streaked with dirt, but that comes and goes."
She paused a moment and let her gaze circle around the room, briefly touching on each of us with a warm and friendly smile before she continued. "Um... because it's a neuromuscular disorder, the muscles in my eyes are paralyzed. It's hard for me to open them all the way, which makes it even more difficult to see."
Huh? So those weren't intentional bedroom eyes, which made more sense. Her overall sweet and demure look should have told me she wasn't "that type of girl". And I could finally see her eyes were blue.
Jillian gave a dismissive wave of her hand and looked back to Mags. "There's some other stuff that goes with this disease. Muscle weakness. Cardiomyopathy. But I'm sure everyone would be bored by it."
Fuck yeah, we'd be bored by it.
I gave an exaggerated mock yawn, which was loud and made it clear I found her story boring. It caused her face to lift slowly until she was looking directly at me. I could tell it was an effort for her to do that small move. Her gaze was impassive, but from what little I'd observed about her in the past twenty seconds, I knew that was because she didn't have any muscle control over her eyes. She couldn't tell me with her eyelids and eyebrows what I saw deep in her irises as they turned to the color of dark denim.
I'd hurt her feelings. Or maybe even pissed her off.
Boo-hoo.
"Well, thank you, Jillian," Mags said to break the awkward silence. When my eyes cut over to her, she gave me a disapproving look. I lifted my right hand, raised my middle finger, and rubbed at the corner of my eye with it while I looked at Mags innocently.
She gave a knowing look right back to me. It said, "I've seen your kind. A dime a dozen. Yeah, you're a badass, but I'll chew you up and spit you out, boy."
I knew at that point not to underestimate that little old lady.
Mags turned away from me, and her gaze swept the group. "Maybe I should take a moment
before we continue with introductions to explain why the group dynamic is important. I'll facilitate conversations, and you should all feel free to jump in when you feel like it."
I looked back over at Jillian. She was politely watching Mags, but I could tell her anger at me was completely gone. I was an asshole to her, completely dismissive of her issues, and yet she sat there listening to Mags with a sweet smile on her face and even a bit of eagerness to belong to this group.
God, she was fucking weird and I narrowed my eyes at her.
Regardless of her tragic tale of disease and disability, my gut instinct said she didn't belong in this group. It was for people with "issues" but, more specifically, for people who had a hard time dealing with their "issues." She didn't seem all that upset by her impending blindness and cardio-whatever-the-fuck-she-said-she-had. The emotions vibrating off each person in attendance were tangible, ranging from the most heavy-hearted melancholy to bitter hatred of life.
But not Sexy Eyes.
She seemed to radiate an inner joy that felt completely out of place in this room.
Yeah... she was fucking weird.
Chapter 4
Present day...
When I drove the front passenger tire over the IED and it exploded, I didn't feel pain at first.
I remember being aware of screaming, and smoke, and more explosions in the distance that shook the ground, but the sounds were muffled because the detonation caused temporary acoustic trauma to my ears. I looked to the passenger seat where Jelonek had been sitting just ten seconds prior, prattling on about his wife who was due to deliver their first baby any day now. It made me think about Maria, and I wondered how fast she wanted to have kids once we got married. Soon, I had hoped.
One minute, Jelonek had been sitting beside me, chattering away. The next, the passenger seat was gone.
The entire passenger side of the Humvee was gone.
Jelonek just... gone.
There was nothing left of him or our conversation except a fine mist of blood that seemed to hang heavy in the air around me. My first involuntary breath in, I sucked the remains of Jelonek into my lungs, tasting the coppery fluid from within and immediately expelling him out in a nasty, hacking cough.