Page 13 of Proof Of Life

I have a fucking job to do right here in this godforsaken desert. I have lives to avenge by finishing this goddamn war, and I’ll be damned if they’re gonna send me home before I complete my mission.

Because otherwise, it was all for nothing. I refuse to believe I lost three members of my team for nothing.

But right now, my concern for him outweighs everything else. “How bad were you hurt?”

“It’s nothing, it’s—I’m fine.“

Bullshit. Does he think after twelve years I can’t tell when he’s lying? “Take off your shirt.”

The bewildered look in his eyes is almost comical, almost, except nothing is funny right now.

“What? No. Why?”

“So I can see for myself that you’re fine.” I challenge him by staring him down, waiting for him to fold. “If you have nothing to hide, prove it. Show me.”

He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, and then stops. “I took a lot of shrapnel. And gravel. Wood splinters, too.”

“Define a lot.”

“Over most of my body. My torso and back, my arms and legs. I've lost hearing in my left ear. It looks like it’s permanent. Blew out my eardrum. And these broken fingers,” he says, holding up his left hand. His middle, ring, and pinky fingers are bandaged in a splint.

A sick feeling clinches my gut. The hearing loss sucks, but he still has one good ear. It’s an accident that happens frequently, even stateside on bases all across the country. But imagining that his body will bear the permanent scars of the tragedy for the rest of his life sickens me. He’ll remember every time he looks in the mirror, every time he showers and dresses. His skin was so beautiful. Perfectly unblemished. But now…

I take note of the cuts and bruises that mar his face and arms. His right eye is tainted red with broken capillaries. He looks like he’s been through hell and back, and it dawns on me that if he’s up and walking around after sustaining those injuries, and I’m still stuck in bed hooked up to the machines after three weeks of recovery, I must be in worse shape than he is.

“And me? Why am I still in this bed?” Besides the fact that my head hurts like a bitch.

Brandt reaches for my hand again, but I’m able to pull away, and he shoots from his chair like his ass is on fire and begins to pace the room. His apparent anxiety is only increasing mine.

“TBI. You suffered a traumatic brain injury. Fractured ribs, broken toes, and some internal bleeding, but it’s resolved itself now. You had a terrible fever, but you’re over the worst of it. They had to keep you asleep until the swelling around your brain lessened.”

TBI? Fuck. I just thought it was a concussion at best. The fever must be why I thought I was dying or in Cancun. I'd much rather be in Cancun right now than here.

“Now that you’re awake, they’ll probably send us back home in a matter of days to begin your therapy.”

“Therapy? Fuck that, I’m going back to the FOB to do my fucking job. They can take their therapy and shove it up their–” I grab the handrail of my bed to pull myself up, intending to get the fuck out of here, but reality sets in quickly, and I realize that’s a joke. I’m not going anywhere like this. I’m so weak I can barely sit up. Sharp, blinding pain shoots through my right leg like I’m being burned with a hot poker, and I gasp as my muscles give and flop back down against the pillow.

Brandt rushes to my side. “What are you doing? Sit the fuck down.”

“No! If you wanna go home, fucking go, Goddammit, but I’m not coming with you. As soon as I’m strong enough, I’m gonna walk the fuck out of here and go back to–”

His broken sob rips from his throat as tears fall from his eyes, and he collapses in the plastic chair and drops his head on my lap. His dark hair is such a contrast from the blue blanket, and I stroke my fingers through the strands, wondering why he’s falling apart. The grief? Returning home solo?

“West,” he cries, and I realize he’s grieving for me, not them. But why? Why me? I’m right here. I'm whole. Brandt raises his head, and when he looks at me, I’ve never seen him look so wrecked. He looks absolutely lost.

“What is it?” Whatever it is, I’ll fix it. I’ll fight any battle for him, slay any dragon, anything, just to wipe that hopeless look off his face.

He grabs the edge of my blanket, and slowly, with his eyes on my face, he pulls it back, revealing my bare thighs, my knees, and then…

Panic has me frozen, and my heart stops beating. “Brandt,” I say a little desperately. “Where the fuck is my leg?”

His throat works over and over, like it’s convulsing. “They couldn’t save it.” His voice is so full of anguish it sounds almost foreign.

My heart starts beating again, too quickly now, and the sound echoes inside my throbbing head. My breathing quickens, and I feel a panic attack coming on. Though I’ve never had one before, it can’t be anything else.

He slips his hand behind my back to rub down my spine. “Just breathe.”

“Get. The fuck. Off. Me.” The words are stilted between the short, harsh puffs of air that I’m trying to drag into my lungs.

---