Page 11 of The Darkness Within

The inventory is soul sucking, and it’s endless. It’s fucking endless. As soon as I complete one checklist, there’s another one to be filled out, and another. The words on the page become blurred, and I close my eyes, feeling lightheaded and detached. Empty.

The pills are the only thing getting me through the day anymore. I rely on them like a crutch, like a vital organ in my body, designed to perform basic and necessary functions in order for me to live. I can’t exist without them.

My commanding officer, Warrant Officer Chief Burgess, has his eye on me. He’s probably a decent guy, but I’m always pissing him off for one reason or another. Because that’s what I am now, a fucking disappointment. A goddamn headache.

“Sommers, you were late again today.” He drops a stack of papers on my desk, and I have to fight to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head. “Look, you’ve got one foot out the door, so I’m not gonna write you up, but if you’re late tomorrow, your consequence is going to make this paperwork look like a fucking wet dream.”

He looks into my eyes, like he can see right through me, and I have to look away. It’s an eerie feeling that makes my skin crawl. Does he realize my pupils are dilated and that my eyes are red? Can he tell how distant I feel?

“Put that shit away,” he says, pointing to the stack of paperwork in front of me. “I’ve got something better for you to do.”

Thank God.

Burgess places a sheet in front of me. All I see are phone numbers, and I have to blink several times to bring my eyesight into focus. “What’s this?”

“The Military Welfare and Recreation agenda. I can’t think of anyone more suited to the position than you,” he lies, clapping me on the shoulder.

That’s fucking bullshit. It’s payback for being late and high. He can’t bust me for it and request a drug test because they’re prescription pills, but he can make my life hell by putting me in charge of planning the MWR functions. The committee that plans get-togethers and social functions for the families of the deployed soldiers is the last thing I’m suited for. I’m not a fucking social director or an event planner. I’m a soldier, and lately, not even a good one.

“Sir, you realize I’m easily triggered, don’t you?” I’m not above using my diagnosis to get out of this nightmare. I’m desperate, and I can’t think of anything more triggering, more traumatic, than fielding phone calls from military wives all day.

His wicked smile makes me wary. “I’ll grab you a box of tissues. In the meantime, get to work. You’ve got a lot of phone calls to make.”

Sixteen phone calls later, and I have the potluck dinner somewhat planned for the following weekend. The key is to delegate the responsibilities to the experts, a.k.a. the wives. Whittemore’s wife volunteered to organize the menu and find out who is bringing what. All I have to do is get my unit to set up tables and chairs and purchase the paper products.

At five p.m., I clock out and head for home. Home, I scoff, what a joke. Have I ever had a home? When I was growing up, the house I lived in belonged to my parents. It never felt like a home. Just a house. Since then, I’ve lived in many residences, but none of them ever felt like a home. The closest I ever came to feeling at home with anyone was when I lived with Gutierrez. We invited friends over for barbecues on the weekends. We played drinking games at our dining room table. We cooked together in the kitchen.

I haven’t taken anything from our place with me. Just a mattress on the floor. No TV, gaming console, couch, or kitchen table. It hurts too much to look at them. But I know, no matter how far away from the base I relocate, his memories will always haunt me, because they’re not in the possessions we shared, they’re in my head. They’re in my heart. And I can’t run from his memory.

When I’m stopped at the red light, I reach for two more pills from my prescription bottle and swallow them dry. With each passing mile, his memory begins to fade to the dark corners of my conscience, replaced with thoughts of potluck dinners and inventory, and what I’ll have to eat when I get home.

Nothing. Because I’ll be passed out by then.

No shower. No dinner. I can barely keep my eyes open as I unbutton the jacket of my BDUs and strip out of my pants. I crash face-first onto the mattress, catching a whiff of old sweat on my dirty sheets. Maybe I’ll wash them tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll…

Moonlight peeks through the window, illuminating a white stripe down the middle of my bed. I have no idea what time it is, sometime during the night. How long have I slept? My head feels heavy. Rolling over, I rub the blur from my eyes, my back connecting with a solid body. I need water. My mouth feels like it’s glued shut. With my bad leg, it’s hard to stand because the mattress is so low to the ground, and because I’m so tired, it’s easier to just crawl. So I crawl, across the floor of my little bedroom, down the short hall into my living room, into the kitchen, where I use the counter to pull myself up.

There’s no bottled water in the fridge. There’s nothing in the fridge. Grabbing a plastic cup from the counter, I fill it with water from the sink, downing it so quickly it dribbles down my chin. I just need another handful of pills so I can go back to bed. Rifling through my ruck, my hand closes around the cold metal handle of my shovel instead of the pill bottle.

Gutierrez’s ditch digger. Why do I have it? Because some asshole borrowed mine and never gave it back. Now I’m the asshole who borrowed his and never gave it back. Grabbing it from the bag, my back slides down the wall until I’m flat on my ass, and my chest squeezes tight with emotions I wish I could feel if not for the pills. My thumb rubs across the worn cord wrapped around my index finger, a constant reminder of what I lost.

Gutierrez’s boot lace.

Instead of the tears I wish I could shed for him, I feel nothing but anger, and a sadness so heavy it crushes me under its weight. A flash of heat moves through my body, igniting my temper. A maelstrom of emotions and memories flood my head and my heart, causing a tornado of anger so thick it chokes me.

“Why?” I scream into the darkness.

My voice echoes off the empty walls.

“I hate this shit! I hate myself! I just want to stop feeling. I just want it all to stop.”

Squeezing the handle of the shovel, I hurl it at the wall with all my strength. The pointed tip embeds deep into the drywall with a satisfying clunk. Not satisfying enough to close the gaping hole in my chest, but satisfying enough that the destruction I caused resonates within my soul.

With my anger depleted, I just feel empty. Tired. I never make it back to my bed. Just lay down on the floor and let my eyes drift shut.

I’m late again for work. Not that I give two shits. The most pressing thing on my agenda today is to inventory our gear and get a headcount for the amount of tables and chairs I need. Something a monkey could do with its eyes closed.

As I lock my apartment door, my neighbor exits at the same time.

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