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Until the last mission. Until we lost my brother in arms.
My body tightens and I pull that shit up right the fuck now. I’m not gonna think about it. It hurts too fucking much.
He was the best of our group. A soft-hearted son of a bitch that smiled all the time. Every time he got a letter from his sister, he read them to us, smiling and laughing at each innocent little joke she made.
And we all smiled and laughed and wished that we were him. Most of us didn’t have a really great family life.
But that man was fucking happy as hell. He should have been home taking care of his sister.
Not dying out in that heat, his eyes full of pain and a little bit of anger that he wasn’t going to make it home to take care of her. And then the fear when he pulled us over to him and whispered to my best friend, “Go take care of my little sister. Something’s wrong and she’s in trouble. I feel it.”
And that was it.
And the pain from his death was the last little bit of fire that I needed to leave. Take off and just breathe.
Because he couldn’t anymore. And that was just fucking all kinds of wrong.
I run my hands through my hair and my shoulders slump, tears stinging my eyes. Tears that I refuse to let fall. I’ve already cried for him. For me. For all of us and our stupid naive desire to change the world. Make a difference.
What difference did we make? We got a good guy killed. We couldn’t stop what happened.
I shove up and pace naked around the room, my body tight as a wire strung across a doorway.
Yeah, I can spot shit like that too. Yet we missed all of it. We let him die.
And I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that.
The military recognized that there was something going on with me and my best friend and they sent us home. We’re almost out anyway. Unless we re-up again.
And right now….that’s not something I want to think about. Not going back out there and dealing with death and destruction every day like it’s normal.
It’s not.
So I sit down with my phone and stare at a picture I snapped of Joy when she wasn’t looking. When she walked away from my truck, her back stiff and her shoulders straight.
She’s a strong woman. Stronger than me.
But she’s also young and sweet. Soft and gentle. And I’m not. I’m hard as hell and mean as a striped snake most days.
But not with her. With her I want to be gentle and hold her. Feel every little breath in her body. See her head resting on my shoulder and curve my hardness around her, protecting her, shielding her. Loving her.
But is it going to be enough? Do I have enough left in me to give her everything she needs or wants. To make her happy?
I’m not sure. And that scares the shit out of me. Because if I hurt her, it would break me.
And I wouldn’t come back from that. Couldn’t bear that I hurt her.
So I need to figure this out. Before I claim her as mine and then destroy her like a damn bomb tearing through flesh and bone.
So I pick up my phone to call the one man who understands what I’m going through.
“Hey, man! What’s up? Do you know what time it is?” I hear a woman’s voice in the background and cringe.
“Oh damn. Did I catch you in the middle of something?”
He chuckles. “We were sleeping, asshole. Which is what most people do at four in the morning. Not you apparently, Dracula. But most people.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ve just been going through something and I needed to talk. I didn’t even think about what time it is.”
