Page 100 of The Darkness Within

“Every step of the way.”

When I step out of the bathroom, my dress blues are hanging in a garment bag on the closet door. Every fiber of my being resists donning the uniform. I don’t want to play soldier anymore. When I was a kid, it was all I dreamed of, all I talked about. Playing war with the kids in the neighborhood, watching war movies, reading all the books I could get my hands on about D-Day and Vietnam—it was an abstract idea, a child’s dream. I was lured in by the promise of action, the excitement of danger, the camaraderie and brotherhood, of being a part of something greater than myself, but when I got to the desert, I realized war isn’t anything like that. It’s hell on earth, a living, waking nightmare. The things I saw will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I’m done. I want to be a man of peace. I want to garden and help people and make things grow with my hands. I want to look after the ones left behind, like a shepherd of the casualties of war.

The casualties are not just the soldiers we lost. The casualties are the survivors and the families of those we lost. They are the ones that have to suffer through each day with their grief. The ones who can never forget what they lost.

I am a casualty of war. Violet Gutierrez is a casualty of war. Brewer is a casualty of war, and so are Navarro Riggs, Mandy Cahill, Brandt Aguilar, West Wardell, and the rest of the men from Serenity House and the Bitches with Stitches. We’re all casualties, carrying with us every day our grief and the memories of those we lost.

The definition of a prisoner of war is a person held captive by a belligerent power, during or immediately after an armed conflict. Yes, they had possession of my body for twenty-two days. But what about my friends and their families? Are their hearts and minds not held captive by a belligerent power? Are grief and anger not belligerent powers? They certainly feel all-consuming and devastating.

When I receive this award today, I’m accepting it on behalf of each of them, for the captivity that still grips them because they’ve lost far longer than twenty-two days of their lives.

Brewer helps me dress, fastening the buttons of my coat, straightening the stripes on my breast. He looks at me fondly, proudly, and maybe… Is he getting turned on by the way I look in uniform?

“Brewer,” I laugh, “do I even want to know what you’re thinking?”

He grins, looking guilty but not sorry. “Probably not. I don’t want to dishonor your uniform, so I’ll just keep it to myself.” Brewer straightens my collar and plants a kiss to my chin. “But later, I’d like to help you undress,” he adds, eyes twinkling.

How did I not know this man has a uniform kink?

“Come on, Sergeant. It’s time.”

Nacho, Tex, and Miles are waiting in the living room. Their heads snap up when they see me, phones in hand forgotten, and they whistle low.

“Looking good, soldier,” Tex purrs.

He holds the door open for me, and when I walk outside into the bright sun, it’s like walking into a parallel universe.

What the fuck is going on?

My once peaceful street is lined with motorcycles, with men and women dressed in black leather, motorcycle boots, and with American flags and POW flags affixed to their cycles.

McCormick, Stiles, and Jax step forward. “Sergeant Sommers, it would be our honor to provide you with a motorcade of veterans from the American Legion of Riders Association.”

A fucking motorcade? Are they kidding me?

“Come on, Sergeant, you have a medal to accept. You can’t keep everyone waiting.”

“I kind of can. They can’t really start without me.”

McCormick laughs and claps me on the back. “Damn right!”

I slide into the passenger seat of Brewer’s car, and he pulls out of the driveway, followed by my housemates in the car behind ours. But in front of us, and behind the guys of Serenity House, is a long line of distinguished riders who think I did something special or that I deserve something special. The honor they’re paying me and silently, Gutierrez, makes me feel choked up inside. Not because I deserve a medal and fanfare, but because of the feeling of brotherhood, of feeling like I belong to something greater than myself. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in a long time.

It’s the reason I joined the army so many years ago, and it’s the driving principle behind the twelve steps of Narcotics Anonymous. The feeling of fellowship. So many nights since I lost him, I’ve felt so alone, abandoned and broken, and like I would never fit in anywhere again. I was a fucking mess, who would have me? Since then, I’ve realized the answer to that is everyone. Everyone would have me—my housemates, the Bitches, the guys in my unit, my buddy’s mother, my fellow addicts in NA. They would all have me and accept me with open arms.

Just because I’m an addict doesn’t alienate me. Being a POW doesn’t either. I don’t have to run, I just have to surrender.

There are way too many people in this fucking room. Too many for my peace of mind. Again, I tug at my collar, although it’s not the reason I can’t breathe. Colonel Bullwater drones on and on about sacrifice and service and duty, but all I can hear is the beating of my own heart echoing inside of my head. I have to remind myself to take a deep breath, to keep taking them, to keep my heart rate under control so I don’t sweat through my uniform or spiral out of control. I search out Brewer, who’s sitting in the second row. In front of him is Violet Gutierrez, in a seat of honor in the front row. Brewer keeps his hand on her shoulder, and her hand is clasped over his, making sure he stays close.

My cheering squad fills up the last two rows in the back. The Bitches and the men of Serenity House.

“…medal for service members held captive ‘while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States; while engaged in military operations involving conflict with an opposing foreign force; or while serving with friendly forces engaged in an armed conflict against an opposing armed force in which the United States is not a belligerent party.’”

The Colonel clears his throat, then presents me with the black velvet box that contains my medal. I open it, and he pins it to my breast. He says a few more ceremonial words, more bullshit, and then he hands me another box. Again, I open it, revealing a Purple Heart. The Colonel pins it to my chest. Instinctively, I reach up to cover it with my hand, feeling the cold metal against my palm.

How can something so tiny feel so heavy?

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