Page 14 of Proof Of Life

“West, you have to believe me. There was nothing–”

“Fuck you!” I don’t have the ability to scream, not with my throat still raw, and the shortness of breath. It comes out as more of a growl. “There’s always something…Else…They can do. It’s not your…Fucking leg…” He just stands there, hovering, staring, breathing, waiting for me to absolve his guilt. It’s not going to happen. Not today. “Just get out,” I breathe. My voice is nothing but a heavy whisper because I have no fight left in me.

“Fine. But I’ll be back.”

Don’t fucking bother.

The rational part of my brain understands that losing my leg is nothing compared to the lives that have been lost. I’m sure the rest of my team would gladly give their leg to save their life, but I’m not feeling rational. The oppressive weight of everything I’ve lost is too much to bear right now. My friends, my leg, my career—it’s too much to process all at once.

All I want to do is give up. Just close my eyes and float away and not return.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to be me anymore.

The metal fork chases the nurse out of the room as I hurl it after her, hitting the linoleum floor with a clatter which is drowned out by her curse.

“Shut the fuckin’ door while you’re at it.”

Brandt’s large body fills the doorway. He picks up the fork and smirks like he finds something funny. “Making friends already, I see. You really know how to charm the ladies.”

“Fuck them. And fuck you.”

“What is it now, a sponge bath? You used to like the idea of those.”

“Yeah, well, the reality is less sexy than the fantasy. She wants me to get in that thing,” I accuse, pointing at the wheelchair beside my bed.

“And?” he asks, taking a seat in it. “It’s pretty comfortable.”

“I don’t want to be seen in a wheelchair. I’m not a fucking invalid. What’s the difference between sitting in that thing and sitting in this bed?”

“If you don’t want to be an invalid, then get the fuck out of that bed and stop acting like one.”

Of course, he doesn’t pull any punches.

I traded one prison for another. After a brief stint at Walter Reed Hospital for evaluation, I was transferred back home to Ft. Bragg. Womack Army Medical Center wasn’t much of an upgrade from Germany. Same shitty food. Same fucking staff that want to treat me like a helpless child. Same four fucking walls, day in and day out.

The view from my window is of the parking lot. I can see people come and go about their daily lives and all the while, mine is on hold indefinitely. Like time stopped when that bomb went off, and I am existing in a stasis that never evolves. Every day I wake up with the same stump that prevents me from living my life, at least the way I used to. And every day I wake up and wish I hadn’t.

And every day Brandt shows up with a smile on his face and encourages me to keep going, keep fighting. For what? What the fuck am I fighting for? I have nothing. Zero motivation to recover. What kind of life am I returning to when I’m discharged?

My head hits the pillow and rolls toward the window, and I stare. And stare. Because what else do I have to do?

“Doc says you’re starting therapy tomorrow.”

His words have no effect on me. I couldn’t care less about physical therapy. That’s for people who want to recover, who have a life to return to.

Anger has annihilated my grief, and it consumes me completely. Anger is easier than grief. Grief is exhausting, it’s draining emotionally and physically. Grief hurts.

Anger doesn’t cost me anything.

In fact, it’s the only thing keeping me alive right now.

Liza pops her head back in the room, eyeing me warily before turning her attention on Brandt.

“Staff Sergeant Aguilar, the doctor is ready to see you now.”

“Thanks, Liza. And Sergeant Wardell has something he would like to say to you,” he prompts, looking at me like I’m supposed to know what he’s talking about.

The longer I stare back in silence, the wider his eyes get, like he’s imploring me.

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