Page 74 of The Man I Hate

“Marge, no,” I blubbered, taking a step back. “You shouldn’t. We’re supposed to stay six feet apart. You can’t—”

“Honey, there’s a lot of things I can’t do.” She took me into her arms and pulled me against her chest. “But standing here watching my friend come unraveled in front of me isn’t one of them.”

Braxton

Day unknown

The blast from Ketner’s shotgun tore the locking mechanism from the doorframe. Standing free of the trafficway to the right side of the door, Ketner planted the heel of his left boot against the bottom edge of the door, causing it to swing open freely.

I rushed through the door and moved to clear my assigned sector. Each passing second became a moment long. Movements were exaggerated, similar to the slow-motion scenes of the many action-adventure movies I watched as a child.

From the blanket-covered window toward the floor on my left, a single ray of sunlight pierced through the darkened room, diagonally. Like microscopic ballerinas, particles of dust danced within the limits of the beam of light, each a hovering reminder that we were intruders in what was once a family’s safe haven.

There was no furniture or light fixtures. No interior walls. No rooms. Blankets were scattered about the dirty floor, each likely used as bedding for those who dared to occupy the space. The stale smell of sweat and cordite melded with the unmistakable odor of adrenaline.

A man shot to his feet. He reached for a weapon that leaned against the wall at his side.

My finger tapped the trigger twice.

His hand released the rifle. His body remained erect, refusing to comply with the mind’s recognition that his heart had stopped beating. His eyes the only part of him that seemed to recognize the truth of what had happened. Open and confused, they stared back at me.

A second man swung the barrel of a Kalashnikov in my direction.

My finger tapped the trigger twice.

He stumbled.

I tapped the trigger once again.

He slumped into the corner of the room. The weapon clanked against the floor, bounced, and came to rest at his side.

A woman screamed. She rushed to the fallen man’s side. Her hands were obstructed by her hijab, the traditional Muslim dress.

“Raweenee edeek!” I shouted. “Show me your fucking hands! Raweenee edeek!”

Her empty hands emerged from beneath her dress. Relief washed over me. Then, she reached for the weapon.

“Asqat alsilah!” I shouted, standing no more than fifteen feet from her. “Drop the fucking weapon!”

She chose not to heed my command.

Two successive rounds from the M4 flattened the fabric of the hijab to her chest. Her body tumbled, landing mere inches from the man whose death she hoped to avenge. Face up, she remained motionless.

The dusty gray fabric draped her body from her shoulders to her toes. Frozen in place for what seemed like a lifetime, I watched as a river of blood darkened the hijab from her swollen breasts to the pronounced bump of what could only be that of a pregnant woman.

I shook my head from side to side, hoping to clear it of the memories I’d spent years trying to forget. Portrayed in lucid dreams, the events of my time in combat were returning, one after the other.

Jolted from my sleep, I stared at the ceiling for some time. Confused as to where I was and what was going on, I tried to clear my head. After a moment, everything came to me. I was inflicted with a contagious disease and was quarantined to my bedroom.

I glanced around the room. Bottles of Gatorade were placed neatly on my nightstand. I rolled to the edge of the bed and reached for one of them. I struggled with the lid for some time. Upon twisting it free, I realized how debilitating the disease could be.

Unable to sit up and too weak to raise my head, I poured the sweet red liquid all over my face just to get a drink.

I was living wedged between two hells. One of my own making, and one created by a disease that had no cure.

Uncertain of which was worse, I closed my eyes and prayed for it to end.

I then wondered in what manner my prayers may be answered.