Page 47 of Strike A Chord

Reagan: Or will ever be allowed to. Gotta go, bar’s hopping. I love you too. Chat later?

Me: You know it.

Just that easily, my lonely world was righted by a simple chat with my man. Could I see myself putting a ring on it? Yeah. For the first time in my life, I saw that kind of forever for myself and Reagan. Crystal fucking clear.

Life, you may have kicked my ass in round one, but I’m dominating the fuck out of round two.

You’d think falling asleep with a smile on your face and pleasant thoughts on your mind would curtail a nightmare. But you’d be wrong. At least this time, I didn’t land on my ass between the bunks. I grabbed both notebooks and headed for the dining table, muttering to myself, “Stupid fucking brain.” Wouldn’t it be great to have a key to turn it off and on? Big cup of coffee in hand, I set off to rewrite these fucking nightmares I’d started and then pushed aside.

What compelled my old man lash out like he had? I was just a kid, a helpless child he abused. Barely able to feed myself before he used me as a punching bag and threatened to make me one of his whores. He knew what Dalton did to me, hell, he stood there and laughed as I cried. Great, another fucking issue for my therapist.

Rape.

Fuck. On top of everything else, I was a victim of rape. A night I worked so hard to file deep in the depths of my mind, only tonight it chose to break free. I was only a fucking kid. God damn it, where’s a punching bag when you needed one?

That was the night I ran away. His evil cackle still haunted my mind. The glint in his eyes as Dalton took my virginity and all he saw were dollar signs. I’d hate to think how my life would have been had I stuck around. Another fucking whore to pay for his worthless existence. He had no right to any of our bodies. Not mine. Not my mother’s. Not anyone.

Deuce came out of the back bedroom as I frantically wiped the tears from my face and took a seat across from me. “Some of the shit I saw when I was in Afghanistan still haunts me. Faces, names, all the blood. So much fucking blood.” He shook his head. A familiar sight, having used it like a magic brain eraser myself. “Working for Fizzbo, he knows these things and he’s seen them firsthand. Our mental wellbeing is first and foremost to him. We go through extensive evaluations, and he offers professional help to us that the company pays for. He doesn’t force it, but his reasoning was hard to walk away from when he’s in the same boat as us. PTSD is no laughing matter. It’s the leading cause of the high suicide rate in returning veterans.”

How did I reply to that? I barely knew this man, yet he opened up to me and didn’t hold back. “I’m, um, Easton hooked me up with his therapist.” I pushed the notebook toward him, and let it speak for me as he flipped through it. “Imagery Rehearsal Therapy. She says if I rewrite my nightmares, like trick my mind into believing they were happy thoughts, more or less, that it would help. I haven’t been able to do it yet.”

“This shit fucking breaks you. It’s hard enough to battle it in your sleep let alone when you’re awake. But she’s right, it does help. The mind is a complex thing. You never know what it will latch onto and what it will let go of.” Fucking hell, Deuce did understand.

“I’ll never understand the need to hurt a child, or any human for that matter.” Says he who hurt Joey. “Drawing blood versus mind fucking. Is one the lesser evil of the two?”

“Both are fucked up if you ask me but sometimes, we have do things in order to survive, as I had. Don’t beat yourself up over mistakes from your past but use them to draw from and rebuild yourself stronger than you were before. I have. I volunteer with various wounded soldier organizations and local homeless shelters when I’m not on the road. Does it make up for what I did as a soldier? No, but it helps rebuild my sense of self-worth.” Fuck, Deuce was killing me with this. I couldn’t image what he saw or did nor did I want to. I have enough issues of my own to battle. He slid the notebook back in front of me. “This is a good start. I’m glad you’re seeing a professional. You have my number, use it. Don’t be afraid to reach out beyond the guard-principal relationship.” With a nod he returned to his room and left me to my thoughts.

Why did my father like to make me bleed?

Then it came to me, a song, and I hurriedly wrote the lyrics down.

I Bleed Too

Your words are razor sharp

And cut me from deep inside

Why do you feel the need to hurt me

It only makes me run and hide

The physical wounds will heal

Mental ones, not so much

The longer I’m around you

The more I cringe from your touch

Chorus:

In case you didn’t notice, I bleed too

What’s the reason why you hurt me?

Why do you hate me too?

Every strike of your fist, every curse of your tongue

---