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Loneliness is what happens when you put your life on hold. When you choose to be something bigger than yourself.
Loneliness is what happens when you watch your friends, your commanders, find the girl of their dreams.
Loneliness is not knowing if you’ll make it home, and if you do, will someone be waiting for you.
As of right now, I have no one. Nothing.
An empty condo on the fifth floor of a small downtown block in Kitsap, Washington. Growing up in Seattle, it wasn’t a stretch for me to join the Navy. With no family and few friends, the decision had been easy.
Now, ten years later, I wish I’d taken the time to form some type of relationship with other people outside of Navy life. Witnessing Maverick—one of my best friends—find the love of his life, preceded by our former Captain and Lieutenant, I can admit I’m jealous of their luck.
Mav suggested getting my own pen pal.
So I have.
The person’s name is North Williams. He or she—we don’t get told gender—is nineteen and part of a rehab program in Everett that matches troubled youth with a good influence.
Yeah, I laughed at that one too.
Growing up in foster care, I wasn’t the best role model. Thankfully, I managed to do something with my life before I became another statistic.
I look forward to helping someone redirect their attention. It’ll pass the time until I find my special girl.
This is a joke. It has to be.
There’s no way this can be my life.
My father, a county judge, decided that because I crashed my car four months ago, I needed help. I was a wayward youth in his words. I wasn’t drunk; I don’t do drugs. For god’s sake, I was trying to miss hitting a stray cat! Wound up in a ditch on the wrong side of the road, and because I had one too many energy drinks after a full night of studying, my pupils were kind of dilated.
Cops automatically assumed drugs or alcohol.
My father—mister-know-it-fucking-all—didn’t bother to do a blood test like I begged. He just popped me in front of the bench, all official-like, and demanded I attend rehab.
Dumb, right?
This facility is for kids—the under eighteen kind. The ones who need help. Some of these children are six ways to Sunday fucked up and could use the attention I’m getting because I’m my father’s daughter.
“Miss Williams!” The head counselor, Jamie, calls as she walks into the group therapy room. “You have a letter.” Her grin scares me. She’s too damn happy for this somber place.
“Uh, thanks?” I don’t have anyone who would write to me. Email or text, sure, but not put words to paper.
Accepting the envelope from the woman, I go sit in the corner, scowling when I see they’ve already opened it. Likely to make sure there’s no contraband or anything else incriminating. Annoyed, I read.
Dear North,
I realize this might be weird to you, receiving a letter from a stranger. My name is Officer Desmond Rowe of the United States Navy. I’ve signed on to write letters to at-risk youth and was given your name.
I don’t know anything about you other than your name and age, so I thought I’d tell you a bit about me first off.
I’m 28 years old, from Seattle, Washington, and I live in Kitsap now. I’ve been in the Navy since the day I turned 18. I grew up in foster care, bouncing from home to home because I had a bad temper and nasty attitude. (So says my shitty social worker.)
I travel all over the world for the military and am currently stationed at a Naval base in Spain as overwatch to another base before I’m sent home again.
When I am home, I tend to train more. I don’t have much of a life; at least not many people I care to spend a decent amount of time with. I run a lot, fish, hike when I have the time.
Not sure what else to tell you. I’m a pretty open book if you do want to know anything.
Sincerely,
Des
I say again… How is this my life?
Letters from soldiers now?
I’m not really complaining. He sounds like a decent guy. A little bored maybe. But why would he write some snot-nosed kid with a bad attitude? His time is precious. These punks don’t deserve it to be wasted on them.
Hell, neither do I.
Des,
You sound like a rock star with that name.
Tell me something. I respect your position, the job that you do, but why are you wasting precious time on punk-ass kids with no value for life?
These assholes have no idea what they’re doing with their lives and thrive on making everyone around here miserable.
The hissy fits! The throwdowns over stupid shit like TV time or rec time is ridiculous. I ain’t perfect, never claimed to be, but some of the peo
