Page 102 of The Darkness Within

“Can I take you home now?”

“Fuck, yes.”

A man who was just awarded a Purple Heart and a POW medal for bravery should not be curled up in the fetal position in another man’s arms. It isn’t dignified.

Fuck dignity. I need my man.

Brewer strokes my bare back, his body cradling mine protectively—comfortingly. He runs his fingers down my spine, causing tiny goosebumps to surface over my skin. Softly, he hums the song guaranteed to make me feel better. Tomorrow. The sun will come out tomorrow. It always does.

“Feel better?”

“How can they award a medal to an addict? Not even five months ago, I was chasing my next high.”

“And now you’re facing your fears and learning to cope with them instead of running away. You are worthy of the medals you received. Both you and Victor.”

“I can’t believe I tried to forget him. I don’t ever want to forget him.” Fuck, my voice breaks, and the tears rush forth like a broken dam. My throat feels thick, and my mouth feels dry. “The fucked up part of it is, the drugs didn’t make me forget, not really. They just gave me a reason to validate my self-hatred. Motherfucking hero,” I hiss, swiping my tears with the backs of my hands. “I acted like a loser, like a coward! I never tried to fight back. I never did a fucking thing but endure the torture and the pain. I sat and watched as he died day-by-day. And I did nothing!” My entire body shakes with sobs, and I can feel the pressure building in my head, behind my eyes, signaling that a migraine is on its way.

“You’re not,” Brewer insists vehemently. “You’re not either of those things! What were you supposed to do, break through your shackles and face down twenty men armed with guns? You were weak and starved and beaten, and you were outnumbered. They would have killed you before you even reached them. There was no way you could have saved him.”

I know what he’s saying is true, but it doesn’t erase my guilt and my anger, and it never will. It’s always going to be there, staining the edges of my conscience. My tears continue to fall, no matter how fast I wipe them away. My head feels like a throbbing, snotty mess, pulsing with pressure and emotions that I’m trying like hell to hold back. It’s too much. I’m swamped with emotion. After today, my nerves are raw. My heart feels like it’s been filleted with a thousand cuts.

He drags his fingers through my hair, the anger gone from his voice, now replaced with a soothing whisper. “It’s not self-hatred you feel, it’s survivors’ guilt. It’s worse than hatred. It crawls beneath your skin and suffocates you. Suffocates your soul. It chokes all the goodness and the pride out of you until you have nothing left to live for and nothing left to like about yourself. Until you can’t even look in the mirror.”

“I don’t even recognize that guy anymore,” I cry. “Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, the guy staring back at me is a complete stranger.”

“I do. I recognize that guy. I didn’t know you back then, but I know what kind of man you are, Nash. It’s easy to see. It’s written all over you. You’re a good man, a brave man.”

He kisses the soft spot behind my ear, and I close my eyes and savor the contact. When I feel my ugliest, he makes me feel beautiful.

“You don’t want to be called a hero? Fine, I won’t call you one, but it doesn’t change who you are on the inside.” His hand covers my heart, a heart that only beats for him. “You’re someone I can be proud of. Someone you should be proud of as well. At the end of the day, there’s not much difference between the kind of man you are and a hero.”

“Is it always going to hurt this bad?”

“No,” he whispers fiercely. “I promise it won’t. But when it does, I’ll be here to hold you together when you fall apart. Every. Single. Time.”

I love you. I love you with all of my heart. The heart that you saved, the heart that you pieced back together with duct tape and superglue, it belongs to you.

“My mother is a fucking bitch.”

I can feel him quietly laugh behind me. I can feel his body shake with it. “She’s not a fucking bitch. She just… I don’t know, as your boyfriend—”

“My boyfriend?” Funny, how one word can dry up the tears in a heartbeat. “I like the way that sounds.”

“Yes,” he’s still laughing, “your boyfriend, I would say that your mother can’t get past her own bitter disappointment in your career choice because her own expectations are more important than your dreams. But as your therapist, I would say…she might have an undiagnosed personality disorder,” he whispers, and now my body is shaking with laughter, just like his.

Sniffling, I wipe the last of my snot and take a deep, ragged breath. “I spent so many years writing letters home, sending her certificates and awards I earned along the way, all in a desperate attempt to get her to accept my choice and just, I don’t know, just be proud of me. I’ve always just wanted her to tell me she was proud. Even today, she just couldn’t do it. It fucking hurts,” I admit, bringing on a fresh round of tears.

“I’m proud of you,” he swears. His lips trace the shell of my ear, making me shiver. “She wouldn’t have shown up if she wasn’t proud of you. I don’t know why she can’t say it, but I can bet she feels it.”

Snorting, I point out, “She called me a glorified handyman.”

“Mmm, does that job title come with one of those sexy tool belts?” His lips close over my earlobe, and he sucks gently, making my dick twitch.

Grinning through my tears, I tease, “I’ll make you a sexy calendar for our first anniversary.”

Seven Months Later

“Oh, my God, there’s a party in my mouth,” I manage to say around a mouthful of rice. “Nothing beats your paella, Violet.”

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