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Katie has been on my mind a lot over the years, and even more so after spending some time in this hellhole. But I never thought I’d hear from her again … not after the way I left her. And how did she even find me? A dull ache stabs at my chest, and I blow out a slow, labored breath.
I feel an immediate urge to open the letter, a force too powerful to deny. Katie fucking Devora! Slipping a thumb into the nook of the envelope, I slide it open quickly and pull the letter out. Almost immediately, I’m hit with the smell of perfume … Katie’s perfume. The smell is faint, not like she sprayed it on but as if it were simply passed from hand to paper.
For better or worse, my nose has become quite sensitive to the smell of women in just these first few months of deployment. We often stop at the main operating base located on the Green Zone to drop off detainees, and many of the female soldiers stationed there wear some sort of scent. We animals could smell them from a mile away.
But Katie’s perfume brings an onslaught of memories that make my legs go weak and causes me to stumble back. I take a seat on my cot to compose myself. I don’t unfold the letter right away, instead choosing to let the soft floral essence float around my nasal cavity for a bit. I close my eyes and breathe it in slowly, letting the fragrance remind me of my biggest regret. My only regret, actually, and one I’ve never quite gotten over.
From the second I saw her, I knew I was a goner … and that was in the first fucking grade. Two pigtails swung freely from either side of her head, and when she turned around and locked her large brown eyes onto mine, I just knew I had to steal her pencil. I wanted her chasing me, because if she chased me, it meant she liked me. The second she dove onto my back and brought me tumbling to the ground, I knew I’d met my match.
And boy, did I ever. In the years that followed, it became crystal clear that Katie would be the woman I was going to marry—a woman who would take my bullshit and throw it right back at me, a woman with a stubborn will and the kindest of hearts. And I knew, the first and only time we made love, that I was a complete goner. From that moment on, Katie Devora owned me.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I allow myself to remember that moment … the feel of her mile-long legs as they wrapped around me, pulling me into her and digging her heels into my back if I tried to move away. I see her perfect, tear-dropped tits waiting for my eager mouth.
My dick throbs in my uniform bottoms, and I look down at it as if it’s grown a face. What the fuck is wrong with me? Ignoring the feeling, I unfold the letter and begin to read.
Dear Devin,
I’m not sure the best way to start this letter, but considering our past, I feel the only way is with complete honesty. So … here goes.
I’m not writing you because I want to; I’m writing you because I need to … well, at least that’s what my therapist says. She wanted me to connect with a soldier, so she sent me a potential pen pal list. And although I vaguely remember someone telling me in passing that you had joined the military, I think I’d blocked it out. So you can probably imagine my surprise when I saw your name. Seriously, what were the chances?
I’ve been having a hard time lately, and connecting with a soldier is supposed to help me heal. At first I thought seeing your name was some sort of sign, a tiny ray of hope from the man upstairs. Because if anyone knew how much you helped me before, it would be Him. But now that I’m actually sitting down and writing this, it’s doing nothing but
bringing back all of the insecurities and anger that I was left with nearly a decade ago.
You left me. Without a single word. I’m pissed at you for that, and honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be anything but mad at you. You made a decision to leave me with no way to reach you or find you. You left me at home to drown in my own heartache, and that’s what I did. I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye … just like with my dad.
You probably haven’t heard, but my dad was killed in a car accident. I was with him, and his death has completely destroyed me. In fact, according to my therapist, I’m not grieving the loss of him very well. She seems to think that writing you—or any soldier, for that matter—might help me let go of some of my hurt and anger. But I can see now that reaching out to you probably wasn’t the best idea.
Anyway, I think Dr. Perry has a screw loose and has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. However, I am desperate to find closure and move on, because the woman I’ve become is not the woman I want to be. You would probably still recognize me if you saw me, but the carefree, happy girl you once knew … she’s gone … buried right alongside her dad in a cold, dark grave.
Despite what you’re probably thinking right about now, I’m not a completely angry, closed-off bitch. Writing you just seems to have pulled that out of me. Honestly though, I don’t care what you think, and I can’t bring myself to give a shit about anything, really.
I’m getting off track, and that’s the exact opposite of what this letter is supposed to do, so I’m going to do what’s best for me right now. I’m going to tell you what happened, but for my own sanity I’m going to pretend that Devin Ulysses Clay is a complete stranger … shouldn’t be too hard, I guess, considering I haven’t heard a word from you in years. So here goes nothing.
Six weeks ago, my dad and I were on our way to dinner when a car in the opposite lane crossed the center divide and slammed into us head-on. I woke up two days later in the hospital to find out that my father had died on impact, and the man responsible for his death was a soldier home on leave.
Sergeant Clay, my dad was my best friend—my biggest supporter—and now he’s gone. And instead of grieving his loss and remembering all of the great things about him, I’m consumed with anger and resentment toward the young man who so carelessly stole my father’s life. He was a soldier, for Christ’s sake. Aren’t soldiers supposed to be strong, upstanding men? Aren’t they supposed to be trained in the art of discipline and control? Or has the military gone to shit and now they’re producing nothing but careless, uncontrollable monsters who think it’s okay to get behind the wheel drunk?
Who does that anyway, driving drunk? It makes me angry, and I hate this anger that has somehow taken over every aspect of my life. But I can’t seem to move past it. It controls me in ways that I can’t even explain. It’s an entity, in and of itself, growing inside of me to epic proportions. It’s the last thing I think about when I go to bed at night and the first thing I think about in the morning, and on most days it occupies every minute in between.
Bailey tells me that the first step is forgiveness, but please tell me how in the hell I’m supposed to forgive a “mistake” that destroyed my entire world? How do I move on from this? How do I erase this deep-rooted hatred that has spread from a smolder to a full-blown inferno inside my soul? Honestly, I’m not sure I can erase it, or move on, and that terrifies the ever-loving shit out of me.
My dad was a good man … a kind man. He was a hard worker and the best damn father a girl could ever ask for. He was my hero, and nothing and no one can bring him back. But it sure will be satisfying knowing that Lieutenant Drexler will rot in prison for what he took away from me and my family.
Can you even relate to what I’m going through and what I’m feeling? Of course you can’t. Because what I’m feeling is a gaping hole of emptiness in the spot where my heart should be.
I haven’t told anyone about these feelings, except my therapist. Sure, my mom and sister know I’m having a hard time, but they’re oblivious to the things that cycle over and over in my head. They don’t know that there have been days I’ve thought about what it would be like to leave this earth, and I hope they never do because I don’t want to disappoint them more than I already have.
So, do I feel better after writing this letter? I’m not so sure. If anything, at least it will appease Dr. Perry, and it’s given me the opportunity to tell you that you’re a fucking dick and I hate you for what you did. Most of all, I hate that I don’t know why you left. What changed to make you pick up and leave the way you did?
You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t care.
Have a good life, Sergeant Clay.
Sincerely,
Katie Devora
